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Miscellaneous Popular Novels. 


PRICE 


340. Gwendoline’s Harvest. By James Payn $0 25 

341. Kilmeny. By W. Black 50 

342. John: a Love Story. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

343. True to Herself. By F. W. Robinson 50 

344. Veronica. By the Author of “ Aunt Margaret’s 

Trouble” 50 

3 15. A Dangerous Guest. By the Author of “Gil- 
bert Rugge” 50 

346. Estelle Russell 75 

347. The Heir Expectant. By the Author of “ Ray- 

mond’s Hemine” 50 

345. Which is the Heroine ? 60 

340. The Vivian Romance. By Mortimer Gollins. . 50 

35t». In Duty Bound. Illustrated 50 

351. The Warden and Barchester Towel's. In 1 vol. 

By Anthony Trollope 75 

35'2. From Thistles — Grapes ? By Mrs. Eiloart. ... 59 

353. A Siren. By T. Adolphus Trollope 50 

354. Sir Hariy llot.spur of Humblethwaite. By 

Anthony Trollope. Illustrated 50 

355. Earl’s Dene. By R. E. Francillon 50 

.356. Daisy Nichol. By *Lady Hardy 50 

357. Bred in the Bone. By James Payn 50 

35S. Fenton’s Quest. By Miss Braddon. Illustrated. 50 

359. Monarch of Mincing-Lane. By W. Black. Il- 

lustrated 50 

360. A Life’s Assize. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 50 

361. Anteros. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

362. Her Lord and Master. By Mrs. Ross Church. . 50 


\ PRICK 

363. Won — Not AVooed. By James Payn $0 5(1 

364. For Lack of Gold. By Charles Gibbon 50 

365. Anne Furness. By the Author of “Mabel’s 

Progress” 75 

366. A Daughter of Heth. By W. Black 50 

367. Durnton Abbey. By 'P. A. Trollope .50 

363. Joshua Marvel. By B. L. Faijeon 40 

369. The Levels of Arden. By Miss Braddon. Il- 

lustrated 75 

370. Fair to See. B^^ L. W. M. Lockhart 75 

'^371. Cecil’s Tryst. By James Payn 50 

372. Patty. By Katharine S. Macquoid 50 

373. Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas 25 

374. Grif. By B. L. Farjeon 40 

375. A Bridge of Gbuss. By F. W. Robinson 50 

376. Albert Lunel. By Lord Brougham 75 

377. A Good Investment. By Wm. Flagg .50 

378. A Golden Soitow. By Mrs. Cashel Hoey 50 

379. Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 

3S0. Hope Deferred. By Eliza F. Pollard 50 

331. The Maid of Sker. By R. D. Blackmore 75 

332. For the King. By Charles Gibbon 50 

333. A Girl’s Romance, and Other Tales. By F. W. 

Robinson 50 

384. Dr. "Wain wrighl’ 6 Patient. By Edmund Yates .50 

385. A Passion in Tatters. By Anuie Thomas .... 75 

386. A Woman’s Vengeance. By James Payn.. .. . 50 

387. The Strange Ad ven tyres of a Phaeton. By 

Wm. Black 75 


tP” flailing Yofice.— II aepeu & Brothers will send their Books hy Mail., x>ostage free, to any imrt of the United 

States, on receipt of the Price. 


MISCELLANEOUS POPULAR NOYELS 

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New Yokk. 


Harper & Brothers publish, in addition to others, including their Library of Select Novels, 
the following Miscellaneous Popular Works of Fiction : 


(For fitll titles, see Harper's Catalogue.) 


DICKENS’S NOVELS, Harper’s Household Edition : 
Oliver Twist. Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $1 00 ; Pa- 
per, 50 cents. 

Martin Chuzzlewit. Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $1 50 ; 
Paper, $1 00. 

The Old Curiosity Shop. Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, 
.$1 25; Paper, 75 cents. 

David Copperfield. Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $1 50 ; 
Paper, $1 00. 

Domhey and Son. Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $1 50 ; 
Paper, $1 00. 

To be followed by the Author's other novels. 
WILKIE COLLINS’S* Armadale. Illustrations. 8vo, 
Cloth, $2 00 ; Paper, $1 .50. 

Man and Wife. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, 50 ; 
Paper, $1 00. 

Moonstone. Ill's. 8vo, Cloth, $2 00 ; Paper, $1 50. 
No Name. Ill’s. 8vo, Cloth, $2 00; Paper, $1 50. 
Poor Miss Finch. Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $1 50 : 
Paper, $1 00. 

Woman in White. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $2 00 ; 

Paper, $1 50. v 

Queen of Hearts. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

BAKER’S (Wm.) New Timothy. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
Inside. Illustrated by Nast. 8vo, Cloth, $1 75 ; 
Paper, $1 25. 

BRADDON’S (M. E.)* Birds of Prey. Illustrations. 
8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 

Bound to John Company. Ill’s. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 
BROOKS’S Silver Cord. Ill’s. 8vo, Cloth, $2 00. 
Sooner or Later. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $2 00 ; 
Paper, .$1 50. 

The Gordian Knot. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

DE WITT’S (Madame) A French Country Family. 
Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Motherless. Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

* For other Novels by the same a 


BRONTE Novels: 

Jane Eyre. By Currer Bell (Charlotte Bronte). 
12mo, Cloth, $1 60. 

Shirley. By Currer Bell. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
Villette. By Currer Bell. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
The Professor. By Currer Bell. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
Tenant of Wildfell Hall. By Acton Bell (Anna 
Bronte). 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Wuthering Heights. By Ellis Bell (Emily Bronte). 
12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

BULWER’S (Sir E. B. Lytton)* My Novel. 8vo, Paper, 
$1 50 ; Library Edition, 2 vols., 12rao, Cloth, $3 50. 
What will He Do with It ? Svo, Paper, $1 50 ; 
Cloth, $2 00. 

The Caxtons. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents; Library Edi- 
tion, 12mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

Leila. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

Godolphin. 12rao, Cloth, $1 50. 

BULWER’S (Robert— “Owen Meredith”) The Ring 
of Amasis. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

BLACKWELL’S The Island Neighbors. Illustrated. 
8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 

CHURCH’S (Mrs. Ross)* Prey of the Gods. 8vo, Paper, 
30 cents. 

DE FOREST’S Miss Ravenel’s Conversion from Se- 
cession to Loyalty. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

DE MILLE’S Cord and Creese. Illustrations. 8vo, 
Cloth, $1 25; Paper, 75 cents. 

The American Baron. Illustrations. Svo, Cloth, 
$l 50 ; Paper, $1 00. 

The Cryptogram. Illustrations. Svo, Cloth, $2 00 ; 
Paper, $1 50. 

The Dodge Club. Illustrations. Svo, Cloth, $1 25 ; 
Paper, 75 cents. 

FARJEON’S (B. L.)* Blade-o’-Grass. Illustrations. 
Svo, Paper, 35 cents. 

ithor, see Library of Select Novels. 


4 


Aliscellaneous Popular Novels. 


CHAELES KEADE’S Terrible Temptation. Ill’s. 
8vo, Paper, '60 cents ; 12mo, Cloth, 75 cents. 
Hard Cash. Illustrations. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 
Griffith Gaunt. Ill’s. 8vo, Paper, 25 cents. 

It is Never Too Late to Mend. 8vo, Paper, 35 
cents. 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 8vo, Paper, 35 
cents ; 12nio, Cloth, $1 50. 

Foul Play. 8vo, Paper, 25 cents. 

White Lies. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents. 

Peg Woffington and Other Tales. 8vo, Paper, 50 
cents. ^ 

Put Yourself in His Place. Illustrations. Svo, Pa- 
per, 75 cents; Cloth, $1 25; 12mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
The Cloister and the Hearth. 8vo, Paper, 50 cts. 
CUETIS’S (G. W.) Trumps. Ill’s. 12mo, Cloth, $2 00. 
■JDGEWORTH’S Novels. 10 vols. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50 
per vol. 

Frank. 2 vols., ISmo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Harry and Lucj". 2 vols., 12nio, Cloth, $3 00. 
Moral Tales. 2 vols., ISmo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Popular Tales. 2 vols., ISmo, Cloth, $1 50. 
Eosamoud. Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
EDWAEDS’S (Amelia B.)* Debenham’s Vow. Illus- 
trations. Svo, Paper, 75 cents. 

ELIOT’S (George) Adam Bede. Illustrations. 12rao, 
Cloth, $1 00. 

Middlemarch. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $3 50. 

The Mill on the Floss. Ill’s. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
Felix Holt, the Radical. Ill’s. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
Romola. Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth, .$l 00. 
Sceues of Clerical Life and Silas Maruer. Illus- 
trated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

GASKELL’S (Mrs.)* Cranford. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
Moorland Cottage. 18mo, Cloth, 75 cents. 

Eight at Last, &c. 12rao, Cloth, $1 50. 

Wives and Daughters. Illustrations. Svo, Cloth, 
$2 00 ; Paper, $1 50. 

JAMES’S* The Club Book. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

De L’Orrae. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Gentleman of the Old School. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
The Gipsy. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
lleury of Guise. 12mo, Cloth, .$1 50. 

Henry Masterdon. 12rao, Cloth, $1 50. 

The jacquerie. 12mo, Cloth, .$1 50. 

Morley Ernstein. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

One in a Thousand. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Philip Augustus. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Attila. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Corse de Lion. 12mo, Cloth, .“I;! 50. 

The Ancient Regime. 12mo, Cloth, $1 60. 

The Man at Arms. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Charles Tyrrel. 12mo, Cloth, .$1 50. 

The Robber. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Richelieu. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50, 

The Huguenot. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

The King’s Highv^aj'. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

The String of Pearls. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. 

Mary of Burgundy. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Darnley. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

John Marston Hall. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

The Desultory Man. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
JEAFFRESON’S* Isabel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Not Dead Yet. 8vo, Cloth, $1 75 ; Paper, $1 25. 
KINGSLEY’S Alton Locke. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Yeast: a Problem. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
KINGSLEY’S (Henry)* Stretton. Svo, Paper, 40 cts. 

LAWRENCE’S (Geo. A.)* Guy Livingstone. 12mo, 
Cloth, $1 60, 

Breaking a Butterfly. Svo, Paper, 35 cents. 
LEE’S (Holme)* Kathie Braude. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50, 
Sylvan Holt’s Daughter. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
LEVER’S* Luttrell of Arran. Svo, Cloth, $1 50; Pa- 
per, $1 00. 

'rony Butler. Svo, Cloth, $I 50 ; Paper, $1 00. 
Lord Kilgobbin. Illustrations. Svo, Cloth, SI 50 ; 
P.'.per, $1 00. 

iIcCARTHY’S* My Enemy’s Daughter. Illustrated. 
Svo, Paper, 75 cents. 

MACDONALD’S* Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood. 
12mo, Cloth, $1 75. 

MELVILLE’S Mardi. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $3 00. 
Moby-Dick. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75. 

Omoo. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Pierre, 12mo, Cloth, $1 50, 

Redburn. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Typee. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Wnitejacket. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 


MULOCK’S (Miss)* A Brave Lady. Illustrated. Svo, 
Cloth, $1 50 ; Paper, $1 00 ; 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Hannah. Illustrated. Svo, Paper, 50 cents ; 12mo, 
Cloth, $1 50. 

The Woman’s Kingdom. Illustrated, Svo, Cloth, 
$1 50 ; Paper, $1 00 ; 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

A Life for a Life. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50, 

Christian’s Mistake. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

A Noble Life. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50, 

John Halifax, Gentleman. ' 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

The Unkind Word and Other Stories. 12mo, 
Cloth, $1 50, 

Two Marriages. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Olive. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Ogilvies. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Head of the Family. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Mistress and Maid. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Agatha’s Husband, 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

MISS Van Kortland. Svo, Paper, $1 00, 

MORE’S (Hannah) Complete Works. 1 vol., Svo, 
Sheep, $3 00. 

MY Daughter Elinor. Svo, Cloth, $1 75 ; Paper, $1 25. 

MY Husband’s Crime. Illustrated. Svo, Paper, 75 cts. 

OLIPHANT’S (Mrs.)* Chronicles of Carlingford. Svo, 
Cloth, $1 75 ; Paper, $1 25. 

Last of the Mortimers. ‘12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Laird of Norlaw. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Lucy Crofton. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Perpetual Curate. Svo, Cloth, $1 50 ; Paper, $1 CO. 

A Son of the Soil. Svo, Cloth, $1 50 ; Piq^er, $1 00, 

RECOLLECTIONS of Eton. Illustratioms. Svo, Pa- 
per, 50 cents. 

ROBINSON’S (F. W.)* For Her Sake. Illustrations. 
Svo, Paper, 75 cents. 

Christie’s Faith. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75. 

SEDGWICK’S (Miss) Hope Leslie, 2 vols., 12mo, 
Cloth, $3 00, 

Live and Let Live. ISmo, Cloth, 75 cents. 

IMarried or Single ? 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $3 00. 

Means and Ends. ISmo, Cloth, 75 cents. 

Poor Rich Man and Rich Poor Man. ISmo, Cloth, 
75 cents. 

Stories for Young Persons. ISmo, Cloth, 75 cents. 

Tales of Glauber Spa. 12nio, Cloth, $1 50. 

Wilton Harvey and Other Tales, ISmo, Cloth, 
75 cents. 

SEDGWICK’S (Mrs.) Walter Thornley. 12mo, Cloth, 
$1 50. 

SHERWOOD’S (Mrs.) Works. Illustrations, 16 vols., 
12mo, Cloth, $l 50 per vol. 

Henry Milner, 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $3 00. 

Lady of the Manor. 4 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $6 00. 

Roxobel, 3 vols., ISmo, Cloth, $2 25. 

THACKERAY’S (W. M.) Novels : 

Vanity Fair. 82 Illustrations, Svo, Paper, 50 cts. 

Pendennis. 179 Illustrations. Svo, Paper, 75 cts. 

The Virginians. 150 Ill’s, Svo, Paper, 75 cents. 

The Newcomes. 162 Ill’s. Svo, Paper, 75 cents. 

The Adventures of Philip, Portrait of Author 
and 64 Illustrations. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. 

Henry Esmond and Lovel the Widower. 12 Illus- 
trations. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. 

TOM BROWN’S School Days. By an Old Boy. Il- 
lustrations. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. 

TOM BROWN at Oxford, Ill’s. Svo, Paper, 75 cents.. 

TROLLOPE’S (Anthony)* Bertrams, 12mo, Cloth, 
$1 50, 

The Golden Lion of Granpere. Illustrated. Svo, 
Paper, 75 cents. 

The Eustace Diamonds. Svo, Cloth, $1 75. 

Can You Forgive Her? Svo, Cloth, $2 CO; Paper, 
$1 50. 

Castle Richmond. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Doctor Thorne. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Franiley Parsonage. Ill’s. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75. 

He Knew He was Right. Svo, Cloth, $1 50 ; Pa- 
per, $1 00. 

Last Chronicle of Barset. Svo, Cloth, $2 00; Pa- 
per, $1 50. 

Phineas Finn. Svo, Cloth, .$1 75 ; Paper, $1 25. 

Orley Farm, Iir.s. Svo, Cloth, $2 00 ; Paper, $1 50. 

Ralph the Heir. Illustrations. Svo, Cloth, $1 75; 
Paper, $1 25. 

Small House at Allington. Ill’s. Svo, Cloth, $2 CO. 

Three Clerks. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Vicar of Bullhampton. Illustrations. Svo, Cloth, 
$1 75 ; Paper, $1 25. 

TROLLOPE’S (T. A.)* Lindisfarn Chase. Svo, Cloth, 
$2 00 ; Paper, $1 50, 


* For other Novels by the same author, see Library of Select Sovels. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


^ NoueL 


By ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 

AUTHOR OF 

“THE GOLDEN LION OF GRANPERE,” “THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON,” 
“THE WARDEN,” “BARCHESTER TOWERS,” “ORLEY FARM,” &c., &c. 



NEW YORK: 

t 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

1873- 


/ 


yiz 

T75’ 

e 

2, 


ANTHONY TROLLOPE’S WORKS. 


Mr. Trollope’s characters are drawn with an outline firm, bold, strong. His side-thrusts at some of the lies 
which pass current in society are very keen. — Boston Congre Rationalist. 

We are prepared to narne him among the illustrious living writers of fiction. * * * The author’s broad and vigor- 
ous portraiture, his keen insight into character, his subtle and penetrating observation, embrace too widely and pierce 
too deeply into the society around him not to give to all he writes the strength and consistency of a purpose ; and we 
cheerfully add that his purpose seems to us to be unexceptionable in its courageous independence and brave human- 
ity. — The Leader. 


THE GOLDEN LION OF GRANPERE. Illustra- 
tions. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 

RALPH THE HEIR. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, 
75 ; Paper, $i 25. » 

SIR HARRY HOTSPUR of HUMBLETHWAITE. 
Illustrations. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

THE WARDEN and BARCHESTER TOWERS. 

Complete in One Volume. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 
BELTON ESTATE. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 
BERTRAMS^ lamo. Cloth, $1 50. 

BROWN, JONES, AND ROBINSON. 8vo, Paper, 
50 cents. 

CAN YOU FORGIVE HER? Illustrations. 8vo, 
Cloth, $2 00 ; Paper, $i 50. 

CASTLE RICHMOND. i2mo. Cloth, $i 50. 

CLAVERINGS. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $i 00 ; Pa- 
per, 50 cents. 

DOCTOR THORNE. i2mo. Cloth, $i 50. 

FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. Illustrations. lamo. 
Cloth, $i 75. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 8vo, Cloth, 75 : 
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THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 



CHAPTER I. 

LIZZIE GREYSTOCK. 

I T ivas admitted by all Her friends, and 
also by her enemies — who were in 
truth the more numerous and active body 
of the two — that Lizzie Greystock had 
done very well with herself. We will tell 
the story of Lizzie Greystock from the be- 
ginning, but we will not dwell over it at 
great length, as we might do if we loved 
her. She was the only child of old Admi- 
ral Greystock, who in the latter years of 
his life was much perplexed by the pos- 
session of a daughter. The Admiral was 
a man who liked whist, wine — and wick- 
edness in general we may perhaps say, and 
whose ambition it was to live every day of 
his life up to the end of it. People say 
that he succeeded, and that the whist, 
wine, and wickedness were there, at the 
.side even of his dying bed. He had no 
particular fortune, and yet his daughter, 
when she was little more than a child, 
went about everywhere with jewels on her 
fingers, and red gems hanging round her 
neck, and yellow gems pendent from her 
ears, and white gems shining in her black 
hair. She was hardly nineteen when her 
father died and she was taken home by 
that dreadful old termagant, her aunt. 
Lady Linlithgow. Lizzie would have 
.sooner gone to any other friend or relative, 
had there been any other friend or relative 
to take her po.ssessed of a house in town. 
Her uncle. Dean Greystock, of Bobsbor- 
ough, would have had her — and a more 
good-natured' old soul than the dean’s 
wife did not exist, and there were three 
pleasant, good-tempered girls in the dean- 
ery, who had made various little efforts at 
friendship with their cousin Lizzie— but 
Lizzie had higher ideas for herself than 
life in the deanery at Bobsborough. She* 
hated Lady Linlithgow. During her fath- 
er’s lifetime, when she hoped to be able fo ‘ 
settle herself before his death, she was not 


in the habit of concealing her hatred for 
Lady Linlithgow. Lady Linlithgow was 
not indeed amiable or easily managed. 
But when the Admiral died, Lizzie did not 
hesitate for a moment in going to the old 
“ vulturess,” as she was in the habit of 
calling the counte.ss in her occasional cor- 
respondence with the gilds at Bobsbor- 
ough. 

The Admiral died greatly in debt — so 
much so that it was a marvel how trades- 
men had trusted him. There was literally 
nothing left for anybody ; and Messrs. 
Harter & Benjamin of Old Bond street 
condescended to call at Lady Linlithgow’s 
hpuse in Brook street, and to beg that the 
jewels supplied during the last twelve 
months might be returned. Lizzie pro- 
tested that there were no jewels — nothing 
to signify, nothing worth restoring. Lady 
Linlithgow had .seen the diamonds/' and 
demanded an explanation. They had 
been “ jiarted with,” by the Admiral’s 
orders — so said Lizzie — for the payment 
of other debts. Of this Lady Linlithgow 
did not believe a word, but she could not 
get at any exact truth. At that moment 
the jewels were in very truth pawned for 
money which had been necessary for Liz- 
zie’s needs. Certain things must be paid 
for — one’s own maid for instance — and 
one must have some money in one’s pock- 
et for railway-trains and little nicknacks 
which cannot be had on credit. Lizzie 
when she was nineteen knew how to do 
without money as well as most girls ; but 
there were calls which she could not with- 
stand, debts which even she must pay. 

She did not, however, drop her ac- 
quaintance with Messrs. Harter & Benja- 
min. Before her father had been dead 
eight months, she was closeted with ]\Ir. 
BenjJmin, transacting a little busine.ss 
-wj#i-him. ^he had come to him, she told 
him, the moment she was of age, and was 
willing to make herself responsible for the 
debt, signing any bill, note, or document 


10 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


which the firm might demand from her to 
that effect. Of course she had nothing of 
her own, and never would have anything. 
That Mr, Benjamin knew. As for pay- 
ment of the debt by Lady Linlithgow, who 
for a countess was as poor as Job, Mr. 
Benjamin, she was quite sure, did not ex- 
pect anything of the kind. But . 

Then Lizzie paused, and Mr. Benjamin, 
with the sweetest and wittiest of smiles, 
suggested that perhaps Miss Greystock 
was going to be married. Lizzie, with a 
pretty maiden blush, admitted that such 
a catastrophe was probable. She had 
been asked in marriage by Sir Florian 
Eustace. Now JMr, Benjamin knew, as 
all the world knew, that Sir Florian Eus- 
tace was a very rich man indeed ; a man 
in no degree embarrassed, and who could 
l)ay any amount of jewellers’ bills for 
which claim might be made upon him. 
Well, what did Miss Greystock want? 
Mr. Benjamin did not suppose that Miss 
Greystock was actuated simply by a desire 
to have her old bills paid by her future 
husband. Miss Gre^’stock wanted a loan 
sufficient to take the jewels out of j^awn. 
She would then make herself responsible 
for the full amount due. Mr. Benjamin 
said that he would make a few inquiries. 

But you won’t betray me,” said Lizzie, 
“ for the match might be off.” Mr. Ben- 
jamin promised to be more than cautious. 

There was not so much of falsehood as 
might have been expected in the statement 
which Lizzie Greystock made to the jew- 
eller. It was not true that she was of 
age, and therefore no future husband 
would be legally liable for any debt which 
she might then contract ; and it was not 
true that Sir Florian Eustace had asked 
her in marriage. Those two little blem- 
ishes in her statement must be admitted. 
But it was true that Sir Florian was at 
her feet, and that by a proper use of her 
various charms, the pawned jewels in- 
cluded, she might bring him to an offer. 
Mr. Benjamin made his inquiries, and ac- 
ceded to the proposal. He did not tell 
JMlss Greystock that she had lied to him in 
that matter of her age, though he had dis- 
covered the lie. Sir Florian would no doubt 
pay the bill for his wife without any ar- 
guments as to the legality of the claim. 
From such information as Mr. Benjamin 
could acquire, he thought that there 
would be a marriage, and that the specu- 
lation was on the whole in his favor. I 


Lizzie recovered her jewels and Mr. Ben- 
jamin was in possession of a promissory 
note purporting to have been executed by 
a person who was no longer a minor. The 
jeweller was ultimately successful in liLs 
views, and so was the lady. 

Lady Linlithgow saw the jewels come 
back, one by one, ring added to ring on 
the little taper fingers, the rubies for tlic 
neck, and the pendent yellow earrings. 
Though Lizzie was in mourning for her 
father, still these things were allowed to 
be visible. The countess was not the 
woman to see them without inquiry, and 
she inquired vigorously. She threatened, 
stormed, and protested. She attempted 
even a raid upon the young lady’s jewel- 
box. But she was not successful. Lizzie 
snapped and snarled and held her own, 
for at that time the match with Sir Flori- 
an was near its accomplishment, and the 
countess understood too well the value of 
such a disposition of her niece to risk it at 
the moment by any open rupture. The 
little house in Brook street — for the house 
was very small and very comfortless — a 
house that had been squeezed in, as it 
were, between two others without any fit- 
ting space for it — did not contain a happy 
family. One bedroom, and that the big- 
gest, was appropriated to the Earl of Lin- 
lithgow, the soji of the countess, a young 
man who passed perhaps five nights in 
town during the year. Other inmate 
there was none besides the aunt and the 
niece and the four servants, of whom one 
was Lizzie’s own maid. Why should such 
a countess have troubled herself with the 
custody of such a niece ? Simply because 
the countess regarded it as a duty. Lady 
Linlithgow was worldly, stingy, ill-tem- 
pered, selfish, and mean. Lady Linlith- 
gow would cheat a butcher out of a mut- 
ton-chop, or a cook out of a month’s 
wages, if she could do so with some slant 
of legal wind in her favor. She would tell 
any number of lies to carry a point in what 
she believed to be social success. It was 
said of her tliat she cheated at cards. In 
backbiting no venomous old woman be- 
tween Bond street and Park lane could 
beat her— or, more wonderful still, no 
venomous old man at the clubs. But nev- 
ertheless she recognized certain duties, 
and performed them, though she hated 
them. She went to church, not merely 
that people might see her there — as to 
which in truth she cared nothing — but be- 


THE EUSTACE DIAIMONDS. 


11 


cause slie thought it was right. And she 
took in Lizzie Greystock, whom she hated 
almost as much as she did sermons, be- 
cause the Admiral’s wife had been her sis- 
ter, and she recognized a duty. But, hav- 
ing thus bound herself to Lizzie — who was 
a beauty — of course it became the fiist ob- 
ject of her life to get rid of Lizzie by a 
marriage. And though she would have 
liked to think that Lizzie w'ould l^e tor- 
mented all her days, though she thorough- 
ly believed that Lizzie deserved to be tor- 
mented, she set her heart ujDon a splendid 
match. She would at any rate be able to 
throw it daily in her niece’s teeth that the 
splendor was of her doing. Now a mar- 
riage with Sir Florian Eustace would be 
very sjDlendid, and therefore she was una- 
ble to go into the matter of the jewels 
with that rigor which in other circum- 
stances she would certainly have displayed. 

The match w’ith Sir Florian Eustace — 
for a match it came to be — was certainly 
very splendid. Sir Florian was a young 
man about eight and twenty, very hand- 
some, of immense wealth, quite unencum- 
bered, moving in the best circles, popular, 
so far prudent that he never risked his. 
fortune on the turf or in gam])ling-houses, 
with the reputation of a gallant soldier, 
and a most devoted lover. There w’ere 
two facts concerning him which might, or 
might not, be taken as objections. He 
was vicious, and — he was dying. When 
a friend, intending to be kind, hinted the 
latter circumstance to Lady Linlithgow, 
the countess blinked and winked and nod- 
ded, and then swore that she had procured 
medical advice on the subject. Medical 
advice declared that Sir Florian was not 
more likely to die than another man — if 
only he would get married ; all of which 
statement on her ladyship’s part was a 
lie. When the same friend hinted tlie 
same thing to Lizzie herself, Lizzie re- 
solved that she would have her revenge 
upon that friend. At an}-- rate the court- 
ship went on. 

"We have said that Sir Florian was vi- 
cious ; but he was not altogether a l)ad 
man, nor was he vicious in the common 
sense of the word. He was one who de- 
nied himself no pleasure let the cost be 
what it might in health, pocket, or mor- 
als. Of sin or wickedness he had proba- 
bly no distinct idea. In virtue, as an at- 
tribute of the world around him, he had 
no belief. Of honor he thought very 


much, and had conceived a somewhat no 
ble idea that because much had been given 
to him much was demanded of him. He 
was haughty, polite, and very generous. 
There was almost a nobility even about 
his vices. And he had a special gallantry 
of which it is hard to say whether it is or 
is not to be admired. They told him that 
he was like to die — very like to die, if he 
did not change his manner of living. 
VYould he go to Algiers for a period? 
Certainly not. He woul^ do no such 
thing. If he died, there was his brother 
John left to succeed him. And the fear 
of death never cast a cloud over that 
grandly beautiful brow. They had all 
been short-lived — the Eustaces. Con- 
sumption had swept a hecatomb of vic- 
tims from the family. But still they were 
grand people, and never were afraid of 
death. 

And then Sir Florian fell in love. Dis- 
cussing this matter with his brother, who 
was perhaps liis only intimate friend, he 
declared that if the girl he loved would 
give herself to him, he would make what 
atonement he could to her for his own 
early death by a princely settlement. 
John Eustace, who was somewhat nearly 
concerned in the matter, raised no objec- 
tion to this proposal. There was ever 
something grand about these Eustaces. 
Sir Florian was a grand gentleman ; but 
surely he must have been dull of intellect, 
slow of discernment, blear-eyed in his 
ways about the town, Avhen he took Liz- 
zie Grej’stock — of all the women whom 
he could find in the world — to be tlie pur- 
est, the truest, and the noblest. It has 
been said of Sir Florian that he did not 
believe in virtue. He freely expressed 
disbelief in the virtue of women around 
him — in tlie virtue of women of all ranks. 
But he believed in his mother and sistei*s 
as though they were heaven-born ; and he 
was one who could believe in his wife as 
though she were the queen of heaven. 
He did believe in Lizzie Greystock, think- 
ing that intellect, purity, truth, and beau- 
ty, each perfect in its degree, were com- 
bined in her. The intellect and beauty ' 
were there ; but for the purity and truth, 
how could it have been that such a one as 
Sir Florian Eustace should have been .so 
blind ! 

Sir Florian was not indeed a clever 
man ; but he believed himself to be a fool, 
and believing himself to be a fool, he de* 


12 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


sired, nay painfully longed, for some of 
those results of cleverness vrhich might, 
he thought, come to him from contact 
with a clever woman. Lizzie read poetry 
well, and she read verses to him, sitting 
very near to him, almost in the dark, with 
a shaded lamp throwing its light on her 
book. He was astonished to find how 
sweet a thing was poetry. By himself he 
could never read a line, but as it came 
from her lips it seemed to charm him. It 
was a new pleasure, and one which, 
though he had ridiculed it, he had so often 
coveted ! And then she told him of such 
wondrous thoughts, such wondrous joys 
in the world which would come from 
thinking ! He was proud, 1 have said, 
and haughty ; but he was essentially mod- 
est and humble in his self-estimation. 
How divine was this creature, whose 
voice to him was that of a goddess ! 

Then he spoke out to her with his face 
a little turned from her. Would she be 
his wife? But before she answered him, 
let her listen to him. They had told him 
that an early death must probably be his 
fate. He did not himself feel that it must 
be so. Sometimes he was ill, very ill; 
but often he Avas Avell. If she would run 
the risk with him he weuld endeavor to 
make her such recompense as might come 
from his wealth. The speech he made 
was somewhat long, and as he made it he 
liardly looked into her face. 

But it was necessary to him that he 
should be made to know by some signal 
from her how it Avas going Avith her feel- 
ings. As he spoke of his danger, there 
came a gurgling little trill of Availing 
from her throat, a soft, almost musical 
sound of woe, which seemed to add an 
unaccustomed eloquence to his Avords. 
When he spoke of his own hope the sound 
AA^as someAvhat changed, but it was still 
continued. When he alluded to the dis- 
position of his fortune, she Avas at his 
feet. “ Not that,” she said, “not that! ” 
He lifted her, and Avith his arm round her 
Avaist he tried to tell her what it Avould be 
his duty to do for her. She escaped from 
his arm and would not listen to him. 

But — but 1 When he began to talk 

of love again, she stood with her forehead 
hoAved against his bosom. Of course the 
engagement was then a thing accom- 
plished. 

But still the cup might slip from her 
lips. Her father was now dead but ten 
months, and what ansAver could she make 


Avhen the common pressing petition for an 
early marriage was poured into her ear ? 
This Avas in July, and it would neA-er do 
that he should be left, unmarried, to the 
rigor of another winter. She looked 
into his face and kneAV that she had cause 
for fear. Oh, heavens'! if all these golden 
hopes should fall to the ground, arid she 
should come to be known only as the girl 
who had been engaged to the late Sir 
Florian! But he himself pressed the 
marriage on the .same ground. “They 
tell me,” he said, “ that I had better get 
a little south by the beginning of Octo- 
ber. I Avon’t go alone. You know Avhat 
I mean — eh , Lizzie ? ” Of course she mar- 
ried him in September. 

They spent a honeymoon of six weeks at 
a place he had in Scotland, and the first 
blow came upon him as they passed 
through London, back from Scotland, on 
their Avay to Italy. Messrs. Harter & 
Benjamin sent in their little bill, Avhich 
amounted to something over £400, and 
other little bills Avere sent in. Sir Florian 
Avas a man by whom all such bills would 
certainly be paid, but by Avhom they 
Avould not be paid without his understand- 
ing much and conceiving more as to their 
cause and nature. Hoav much he really 
did understand she aa'us never quite aAvare ; 
but she did knoAV that he detected her in a 
positiA'e falsehood. She might certainl}^ 
have managed the matter better than she 
did ; and had she admitted everything 
there might probably have been but feAv 
words about it. She did not, however, 
understand the nature of the note she had 
signed, and thought that simply new bills 
Avould be presented by the jeAvellers to her 
husband. She gave a false account of the 
transaction, and the lie Avas detected. I 
do not know that she cared very much. 
As she was utterly devoid of true tender- 
ness, so also was she devoid of conscience. 
They went abroad, however ; and by the 
time the winter Avas half over in Naples, 
he kneAV what his wife Avas ; — and before 
the end of the spring he was dead. 

She had so far played her game Avell, 
and had Avon her stakes. What regrets, 
what remorse she suffered Avhen she kneAV 
that he was going from her, and then 
kneAV that he was gone, who can say ? As 
man is never strong enough to take un- 
mixed delight in good, so may Ave presume 
also that he cannot be quite so AA^eak as 
to find perfect satisfaction in evil. There 
must have been qualms as she looked at 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


13 


his dying face, soured with the disappoint- 
ment she had brought upon him, and lis- 
tened to the harsh querulous voice that 
was no longer eager in the expressions of 
love. There must have been some pang 
when she reflected that the cruel wrong 
which she had inflicted on him had prob- 
ably hurried him to his grave. As a wid- 
ow, in the first solemnity of her widow- 
hood, she was wretched and would see no 
one. Then she returned to England and 
shut herself up in a small house at Brigh- 
ton. Lady Linlithgow ofiered to go to 
her, but she begged that she might be left 
to herself. For a few short months the 
aAve arising from the rapidity with which 
it had all occurred did afflict her. Twelve 
months since she had hardly known the 
man who was to be her husband. Now 
she was a widow — a widow very richly en- 
dowed — and she bore beneath her bosom 
the fruit of her husband’s love. 

But, even in these early daj's, friends 
and enemies did not hesitate to say that 
Lizzie Greystock had done very well with 
herself ; for it was known by all concerned 
that in the settlements made she had been 
treated with unwonted generosity. 


CHAPTER 11 

LADY EUSTACE. 

Tuere were circumstances in her posi- 
tion which made it impossible that Lizzie 
Greystock, or Lady Eustace, as we must 
now call her, should be left altogether to 
herself in the modest widow’s retreat 
which she had found at Brighton. It was 
then April, and it was known tliat if all 
tilings went well with her she would be 
a mother before the summer was over. 
On what the Fates might ordain in this 
matter immense interests were dependent. 
If a son should be born he would inherit 
everything, subject, of course, to his 
mother’s settlement. If a daughter, to 
lier would belong the great personal 
wealth which Sir Florian had owned at 
the time of his death. Should there be 
no son, John Eustace, the brother, would 
inherit the estates in Yorkshire which had 
been the backbone of the Eustace wealth. 
Should no child be born, John Eustace 
would inherit everything that had not 
been settled upon or left to the widow. 
Sir Florian had made a settlement imme- 
diately before his marriage, and a will 
immediiitely afterwards. Gf what lie had 


done then, nothing had been altered in 
those sad Italian days. The settlement 
had been very generous. The whole 
property in Scotland was to belong to 
Lizzie for her life, and after her death 
was to go to a second son, if such second 
son there should be. By the will money 
was left to her — more ’ than would be 
needed for any possible temporary emer- 
gency. When she knew how it all was 
arranged, as far as she did know it, she 
was aware that she was a rich woman. 
For so clever a woman she was infinitely 
ignorant as to the possession and value of 
money and land and income, though, 
perhaps, not more ignorant than are most 
young girls under twenty-one. As for 
the Scotch property, she thought that it 
was her own forever, because there could 
not now be a second son, and yet was not 
quite sure whether it would be her own 
at all if she had no son. Concerning that 
sum of money left to her, she did not know 
whether it was to come out of the Scotch 
property or be given to her separately, 
and whether it was to come annually or 
to come only once. She had received, 
while still in Naples, a letter from the 
family lawyer, giving her such details of 
the will as it was necessary that she 
should know, and now she longed to ask 
questions, to have her belongings made 
plain to her, and to realize her wealth. 
She had brilliant prospects; and yet, 
through it all, there was a sense of loneli- 
ness that nearly killed her. AYould it 
not have been much better if her husband 
would have lived, and still worshipped 
her, and still allowed her to read poetry 
to him? But she had read no poetry to 
him after that affair of Messrs. Harter & 
Benjamin. 

The has, or will have, but little to do 
with these days, and may be hurried on 
through the twelve, or even twenty-four 
months which followed the death of poor 
Sir Florian. The question of the heirship, 
however, was very grave ; and early in the 
month of May Lady Eustace was visited 
by her husband’s uncle, Bishop Eustace, 
of Bobsborough. The bishop had been 
the younger brother of Sir Florian’s 
father, was at this time about fifty, very 
active and very popular, and was one who 
stood high in the world, even among 
bishops. He suggested to his niece-in- 
law that it was very expedient that, dur- 
ing her coming hour of trial, she should 
not absent herself from her husband’s 


14 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


family, and at last persuaded her to take 
up her residence at the palace at Bobs- 
borough till such time as the event should 
De over. Lady Eustace was taken to the 
palace, and in due time a son was born. 
John, who was now the uncle of the heir, 
came down, and, with the frankest good- 
humor, declared that he would devote 
himself to the little head of the family. 
He had been left as guardian, and the 
management of the great family estates 
was to be in his hands. Lizzie had read 
no poetry to him, and he had never liked 
her, and the bishop did not like her, and 
the ladies of the bishop’s family disliked 
her very much, and it was thought by 
them that the dean’s pepple — the Dean of 
Bobsborough was Lizzie’s uncle — were not 
very fond of Lizzie since Lizzie had so 
raised herself in the world as to want no 
assistance from them. But still they 
were bound to do their duty by her as the 
widow of the late and the mother of the 
present baronet. And they did not find 
much cause of complaining as to Lizzie’s 
conduct in these days. In that matter of 
the great family diamond necklace, which 
certainly should not have been taken to 
Naples at all, and as to which the jewel- 
ler had told the lawyer and the lawj^er 
had told John Eustace that it certainly 
should not now be detained among the 
widow’s own private property, the bishop 
strongly recommended that nothing should 
be said at present. The mistake, if there 
was a mistake, could be remedied at any 
time. And nothing in those very early 
days was said about the great Eustace 
necklace which afterwards became so 
famous 

Why Lizzie should have been so gener- 
ally disliked by the Eustaces it might be 
hard to explain. While she remained at 
the palace she was very discreet, and per- 
haps demure. It may be said they dis- 
liked her expressed determination to cut 
her aunt. Lady Linlithgow; for they 
knew that Lady Linlithgow had been, at 
any rate, a friend to Lizzie Greystock. 
There are people who can be wise within 
a certain margin, but bej’^ond that commit 
great imprudences. Lady Eustace sub- 
mitted herself to the palace people for 
that period of her prostration, but she 
could not hold her tongue as to her future 
intentions. She would, too, now and 
then ask of Mrs. Eustace and even of her 
daughter an eager, anxious question about 
her own property. “She is dying to 


handle her money,” said Mrs. Eustace tc 
the bishop. “ She is only like the rest of 
the world in that,” said the oishop. “ If 
she would be really open, I wouldn’t mind 
it,” said Mrs. Eustace None of them 
liked her, and she did not like them. 

She remained at the palace for six 
months, and at the end of that time she 
went to her own place in Scotland. Mrs. 
Eustace had strongly advised her to ask 
her aunt, Lady Linlithgow, to accompany 
her, but in refusing to do this Lizzie was 
quite firm. She had endured Lady Lin- 
lithgow for that year between her father’s 
death and her marriage ; she was now be- 
ginning to dare to hope for the enjoyment 
of the good things which she had won , 
and the presence of the dowager-countess, 
“the Vulturess,” was certainly not one 
of these good things. In wjiat her enjoy- 
ment was to consist, she had not as yet 
quite formed a definite conclusion. She 
liked jewels. She liked admiration. She 
liked the power of being arrogant to those 
around her. And she liked good things 
to eat. But there were other matters 
that Avere also dear to her. She did like 
music, though it may be doubted whether 
she would ever play it or even listen to it 
alone. She did like reading, and espe- 
cially the reading of poetry, though even 
in this she was false and pretentious, 
skipping, pretending to have read, lying 
about books, and making up her market 
of literature for outside admiration at the 
easiest possible cost of trouble. And she 
had some dream of being in love, and 
would take delight even in building cas- 
tles in the air, which she would people 
with friends and lovers whom she would 
make happy with the most open-hearted 
benevolence. She had theoretical ideas 
of life which were not bad, but in practice 
she had gained her objects, and she was 
in a hurry to have liberty to enjoy them. 

There was considerable anxiety in the 
palace in reference to the future mode of 
life of Lady Eustace. Had it not been for 
that baby-heir, of course there would 
have been no cause for interference ; but 
the rights of that baby were so serious 
and important that it was almost impos- 
sible not to interfere. The mother, how 
ever, gave some little signs that she did 
not intend to submit to much interference, 
and there was no real reason why she 
should not be as free as air. But did she 
really intend to go down to Portray Castle 
all alone— that is, with her baby and 


THE EUSTACE DIAIMONDS. 


15 


nurses ? This was ended by an arrange- 
ment, in accordance with which she was 
accompanied by her eldest cousin, Ellinor 
Greystock, a lady who was just ten years 
her senior. There could hardly be a bet- 
ter woman than Ellinor Greystock, or a 
more good-humored, kindly being. After 
many debates in the deanery and in the 
palace, for there was much friendship be- 
tween the two ecclesiastical establishments, 
the offer was made and the advice given. 
Ellinor had accepted the martyrdom on 
the understanding that if the advice were 
accepted she was to remain at Portray 
Castle for three months. After a long 
discussion between Lady Eustace and the 
bishop’s wife the offer was accepted, and 
the two ladies went to Scotland together. 

During those three months the widow 
still bided her time. Of her future ideas 
of life she said not a word to her com- 
panion. Of her infant she said very lit- 
tle. She would talk of books, choosing 
such books as her cousin did not read; 
and she would interlard her conversation 
with much Italian, because her cousin did 
not know the language. There was a 
carriage kept by the widow, and they had 
themselves driven out together. Of real 
companionship there was none. , Lizzie 
was biding her time, and at the' end of 
the three months Miss Greystock thank- 
fully, and, indeed, of necessity, returned 
to Bobsborough. “ I’ve done ho good,” 
she said to her mother, and “ have been 
very uncomfortable.” “My dear,” said 
her mother, “ we have disposed of three 
months out of a two years’ period of dan- 
ger. In two years from Sir Elorian’s 
death she will be married again.” 

When this was said Lizzie had been a 
widow nearly a year, and had bided her 
time upon the whole discreetly. Some 
foolish letters she had written, chiefly to 
the lawyer about her money and property ; 
and some foolish things she had said, as 
when she told Ellinor Greystock that the 
Portray property was her own forever, to 
do what she liked with it. The sum of 
money left to her by her husband had by 
that time been paid into her own hands, 
and she had opened a banker’s account. 
The revenues from the Scotch estate, some 
£4,000 a year, were clearly her own for 
life. The family diamond necklace was 
still in her possession, and no answer had 
been given by her to a postscript to a law- 
yer’s letter in which a little advice had 
been given respecting it. At the end of 


another year, when she had just reached 
the age of twenty-two, and had completed 
he;r second year of widowhood, she was still 
Lady Eustace, thus contradicting the 
prophecy made by the dean’s wife. It 
was then spring, and she had a house of 
her own in London. She had broken 
openly with Lady Linlithgow. She had 
opposed, though not absolutely refused, 
all overtures of brotherly care from John 
Eustace. She had declined a further in- 
vitation, both for herself and for her child, 
to the palace. And she had positively avS- 
serted her intention of keeping the dia- 
monds. Her late husband, she said, had 
given the diamonds to her. As they were 
supposed to be worth £10,000, and were 
really family diamonds, the matter was 
felt by all concerned to be one of much 
importance. And she was oppressed by 
a heavy load of ignorance, which became 
serious from the isolation of her position. 
She had learned to draw cheques, but she 
had no other correct notion as to business. 
She knew nothing as to spending money, 
saving it, or investing it. Though she 
was clever, sharp, and greedy, she had no 
idea what her money would do, and what 
it would not ; and there was no one 
whom she would trust to tell her. She 
had a young cousin, a barrister, a son of 
the dean’s, whom she perhaps liked better 
than any other of her relations, but she 
declined advice even from her friend the 
barrister. She would have no dealings 
on her own behalf with the old family 
solicitor of the Eustaces, the gentleman 
who had now applied very formally for 
the restitution of the diamonds, but had 
appointed other solicitors to act for her. 
Messrs. Mowbray & Mop us were of opin- 
ion that as the diamonds had been given 
into her hands by her husband without 
any terms as to their surrender, no one 
could claim them. Of the manner in 
which the diamonds had been placed in 
her hands no one knew more than she 
chose to tell. 

But when she started with her house in 
town — a modest little hou.se in Mount 
street, near the park— just two years after 
her husband’s death, she had a large cir- 
cle of acquaintances. The Eustace peo- 
ple, and the Greystock people, and even 
the Linlithgow people, did not entirely 
turn their backs upon her. The countess, 
indeed, was very venomous, as she well 
might be ; but then the countess was 
known for her venom. The dean and his 


16 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


family were still anxious that she should 
be encouraged to discreet living, and, 
though they feared many things, thought 
that they had no ground for open com- 
plaint. The Eustace people were forbear- 
ing, and hoped the best. “ D the 

necklace,” John Eustace had said, and 
the bishop unfortunately had heard him 
say it ! “ J ohn , ’ ’ said the prelate , ‘ ‘ what- 

ever is to become of the bauble you might 
express your opinion in more sensible 
language.” “1 beg your lordship’s par- 
don,” said John, “I only mean to say 
that 1 think we shouldn’t trouble our- 
selves about a few stones.” But the fam- 
ily lawyer, Mr. Camperdown, would by no 
means take this view of the matter. It 
was, however, generally thought that the 
young widow opened her campaign more 
prudently than had been expected. 

^ And now as so much has been said of 
the character and fortune and special cir- 
cumstances of Lizzie Greystock, who be- 
came Lady Eustace as a bride, and Lady 
Eustace as a widow and a mother, all 
within the space of twelve months, it may 
be as well to give some description of her 
person and habits, such as they were at 
the period in which our story is supposed 
to have its commencement. It must be 
understood in the first place that she was 
very lovely j much more so, indeed, now 
than when she had fascinated Sir Florian. 
She was small, but taller than she looked 
to be, for her form was perfectly symmet- 
rical. Her feet and hands might have 
been taken as models by a sculptor. Her 
figure was lithe, and soft, and slim, and 
slender. If it had a fault it was this, that 
it had in it too much of movement. There 
were some who said that she was almost 
snake-like in her rapid bendings and the 
almost too easy gestures of her body ; for 
she was much given to action and to the 
expression of her thought by the motion 
of her limbs. She might certainly have 
made her way as an actress, had fortune 
called upon her to earn her bread in that 
fashion. And her voice would have suited 
the stage. It was powerful when she 
called upon it for power ; but, at the same 
time, flexible and capable of much pre- 
tence at feeling. She could bring it to a 
whisper that would almost melt your 
heart with tenderness, as she had melted 
Sir Florian ’s, when she sat near to him 
reading poetry ; and then she could raise 
it to a pitch of indignant wrath befitting 
a Lad}' Macbeth when her husband ven- j 


tured to rebuke her. And her ear was 
quite correct in modulating these tones. 
She knew — and it must have been by in- 
stinct, for her culture in such matters was 
small — how to use her voice so that neither 
its tenderness 'nor its wrath should be mis- 
applied. There were pieces in verse that 
she could read, things not wondrously 
good in themselves, so that she would rav- 
ish you ; and she would so look at you as 
she did it that you would hardly dare 
either to avert 5 ’^our eyes or to return her 
gaze. Sir Florian had not known wheth- 
er to do the one thing or the other, and 
had therefore seized her in his arms. Her 
face was oval — somewhat longer than an 
oval — with little in it, perhaps nothing in 
it, of that brilliancy of color which we call 
complexion. And yet the shades of her 
countenance were ever changing between 
the softest and most transparent white 
and the richest, mellowest shades of 
brown. It was only when she simulated 
anger — she was almost incapable of real 
anger — that she would succeed in calling 
the thinnest streak of pink from her heart, 
to show that there was blood running in 
her veins. Her hair, which was nearly 
black, but in truth with more of softness 
and of lustre that ever belong to hair that 
is really black, she wore bound tight 
round her perfect forehead, with one long 
lovelock hanging over her shoulder. The 
form of her head was so good that she 
could dare to carry it without a chignon or 
any adventitious adjuncts from an artist’s 
shop. Very bitter was she in consequence 
when speaking of the head-gear of other 
women. Her chin was perfect in its 
round — not over long, as is the case with 
so many such faces, utterly spoiling the 
symmetry of the countenance. But it 
lacked a dimple, and therefore lacked fem- 
inine tenderness. Her mouth was per- 
haps faulty in being too small, or, at least, 
her lips were too thin. There was want- 
ing from the mouth that expression of 
eager-speaking truthfulness which full lips 
will often convey. Her teeth were with- 
out flaw or blemish, even, small, white, 
and delicate ; but perhaps they were 
shown too often. Her nose was small, 
but struck many as the prettiest feature 
of her face, so exquisite was the moulding 
of it, and so eloquent and so graceful the 
slight inflations of the transparent nos- 
trils. Her eyes, in which she Herself 
thought that the lustre of her beauty lay, 
were blue and clear, bright as cerulean 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


17 


waters. They were long, large eyes, but 
very dangerous. To those who knew how 
to read a face, there was danger plainly 
written in them. Poor Sir Florian had 
not known. But, in truth, the charm of 
her face did not lie in her eyes. This was 
felt by many even who could not read the 
book fluently. They were too expressive, 
too loud in their demands for attention, 
and they lacked tenderness, flow feW 
there are among women, few perhaps also 
among men, who know that the sweetest, 
softest, tenderest, truest eyes which a 
woman can carry in her head are green in 
color. Lizzie’s eyes were not tender, 
neither were they true. But they were 
surmounted by the most wonderfully pen- 
cilled eyebrows that ever nature unassist- 
ed planted on a woman’s face. 

W e have said she was clever. TT e must 
add that she had in truth studied much. 
She spoke French, understood Italian, 
and read German. She played well on 
the harp, and moderately well on the 
piano. She sang, at least, in good taste 
and good tune Of things to be learned 
by reading she knew much , having really 
taken diligent trouble with herself. She 
had learned much poetry by heart, and 
could apply it. She forgot nothing, list- 
ened to everything, understood quickly, 
and was desirous to show not only as a 
beauty but as a wit. There were men at 
this time who declared that she was simply 
the cleverest and the handsomest woman 
in England. As an independent young 
woman she was perhaps one of the rich- 
est. 


CHAPTER 111 

LUCY MORRIS. 

Although the first two chapters of this 
new history have been devoted to the 
fortunes and personal attributes of Lady 
Eustace, the historian begs his readers not 
to believe that that opulent and aristocratic 
Beckie Sharpe is to assume the dignity of 
heroine in the forthcoming pages. That 
there shall be any heroine the historian 
will not take upon himself to assert ; bat 
if there be a heroine, that heroine shall 
not be Lady Eustace. Poor Lizzie Grey- 
stock ! as men double her own age, and 
who had known her as a forward, capri- 
cious, spoiled child in her father’s life- 
time, would still call her. She did so 
many things, made so many eflbrt«, caused 
2 


so much suffering to others, and suffered 
so much herself throughout the scenes 
with which we are about to deal, that the 
story can hardly be told without giving 
her that prominence of place which has 
been assigned to her in the last two 
chapters. 

Nor does the chronicler dare to put for- 
ward Lucy Morris as a heroine. The 
real heroine, if it be found possible to 
arrange her drapery for her becomingly, 
and to put that part which she enacted 
into properly heroic words, shall stalk in 
among us at some considerably later period 
m the narrative, when the writer shall 
have accustomed himself to the flow of 
words, and have worked himself up to a 
state of mind fit for the reception of noble 
acting and noble speaking. In the mean- 
time, let it be understood that poor, little 
Lucy Morris was a governess in the house 
of old Lady Fawn when our beautiful* 
young widow established herself in Blount 
street. 

Lady Eustace and Lucy Morris had 
known each other for many j'ears — had in- 
deed been children together — there having 
been some old family friendship between 
the Greystocks and the Morrises. When 
the admiral’s wife was living, Lucy had, 
as a little girl of eight or nine, been her 
guest. She had often been a guest at the 
deanery. When Lady Eustace had gone 
down to the bishop’s palace at Bobsbo- 
rough, in order that an heir to the Eus- 
taces might be born under an auspicious 
roof, Lucy Morris was with the Grey- 
stocks. Lucy, who was a year younger than 
Lizzie, had at that time been an orphan 
for the last four years. She too had been 
left penniless, but no such brilliant future 
awaited her as that which Lizzie had 
earned for herself. There was no count- • 
ess-aunt to take her into her London 
house. The dean and the dean’s wife and 
the dean’s daughter had been her best 
friends, but they were not friends on 
whom she could be dependent. They were 
in no way connected with her by blood. 
Therefore at the age of eighteen she had 
gone out to be a child’s governess. Then 
old Lady Fawn had heard of her virtues 
— Lady Fawn who had seven unmarried 
daughters running down from seven-and- 
twenty to thirteen, and Lucy Morris had 
been hired to teach English, French, Ger- 
man, and something of music to the two 
youngest Misses Fawn. 

During that visit at the deanery, when 


18 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


the heir of the Eustaces was being born, 
Lucy was undergoing a sort of probation 
for the Fawn establishment. The pro- 
posed engagement with Lady Fawn w'as 
thought to be a great thing for her. Lady 
Fawn was known as a miracle of Virtue, 
Benevolence , and Persistency . Every good 
quality she possessed was so marked as to 
be worthy of being expressed with a cap- 
ital. But her virtues were of that extra- 
ordinary high character that there was no 
weakness in them ; no getting over them ; 
no perverting them with follies, or even 
exaggerations. AVhen she heard of the 
excellencies of Miss Morris from the dean’s 
wife, and then, after minutest investiga- 
tion, learned the exact qualities of the 
young lady, she expressed herself willing 
to take Lucy into her house on special con- 
ditions. She must be able to teach music 
up to a certain point. 

“ Then it ’s all over,” said Lucy to the 
dean with her pretty smile — that smile 
which caused all the old and middle-aged 
men to fall in love with her. 

“It’s not over at all,” said the dean. 
“ You’ve got four months. Our organ- 
ist is about as good a teacher as there is in 
England. You are clever and quick, and 
he shall teach you.” 

So Lucy went to Bobsborough and was 
afterwards accepted by Lady Fawn. 

While she was at the deanery there 
sprung up a renewed friendship between 
her and Lizzie. It was indeed chiefly a 
one-sided friendship , for Lucy, who was 
' quick and unconsciously capable of reading 
that book to which w^e alluded in a pre- 
vious chapter, was somewhat afraid of the 
rich widow. And when Lizzie talked to 
her of their old childish days, and quoted 
poetry, and spoke of things romantic— 
as she was much given to do — Lucy felt 
that the metal did not ring true. And 
then Lizzie had an ugly habit of abusing 
all her other friends behind their backs. 
Now Lucy did not like to hear the Grey- 
stocks abused, and would say so. “ That ’s 
all very well, you little minx,” Lizzie 
would say playfully, “ but you know they 
are all asses.” Lucy by no means thought 
that Jthe Greystocks were asses, and was 
very strongly of opinion that one of them 
was as far removed from being an ass as 
any human being she had ever known. 
This one was Frank Greystock the barris- 
ter. Of Frank Greystock some special — 
but, let it be hoped, very short — description 
must be given by and by. For the present 


it will be sufficient to declare that, during 
that short Easter holiday which he spent 
at his father’s house in Bobsborough, he 
found Lucy ^Morris to be a most agreeiible 
companion. 

“ Remember her position,” said Mrs. 
Dean to her son. 

“ Her position ! VV'ell, and what is her 
position, mother? ” 

“ You know what I mean, Frank. She 
is as sweet a girl as ever lived, and a per- 
fect lady. But with a governess, unless 
you mean to marry her, you should be 
more careful than with another girl, be- 
cause you may do her such a world of mis- 
chief.” 

“ I don’t see that at all.” 

“ If Lady Fawm knew that she had an 
admirer, Lady Fawn would not let her 
come into her house.” 

“ Then Lady Fawn is an idiot. If a 
girl be admirable, of coui-se she will be 
admired. Who can hinder it ? ” 

“ You know what I mean, Frank.* 

“ Yes, I do ; well. I don’t suppose 1 
can aflbrd to marry Lucy ^lorris. At any 
rate, mother, I will never say a word to 
raise a hope in her — if it would be a 
hope ” 

“ Of course it would be a hope.” 

“ I don’t know that at all. But 1 will 
never say any such word to her, unlass 
I make up my mind that I can aflbrd to 
marry her.” 

“ Oh, Frank, it would be impossible,” 
said Mrs. Dean. 

Mrs. Dean was a very good woman, but 
she had aspirations in the direction of fil- 
thy lucre on behalf of her children, or at 
least on behalf of this special child, and 
she did think it would be very nice if 
Frank would marry an heiress. This, 
however, was a long time ago — nearly two 
years ago ; and many grave things had 
got themselves transacted since Lucy’s 
visit to the deanery. She had become quite 
an old and an accustomed member of Lady 
Fawn’s family. The youngest Fawn girl 
was not yet fifteen, and it was understood 
that Lucy was to remain with the Fawns 
for some quite indefinite time to come. 
Lady Fawn’s eldest daughter, Mi*s. Hitta- 
way, had a family of her own, having 
been married ten or twelve years, and it 
was quite probable that Lucy might bo 
transferred. Lady Fawn fully appreciated 
her treasure, and was, and ever had been, 
conscientiously anxious to make Lucy’s 
life happy. But she thought that a gov- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


19 


erness should not be desirous of marrying, 
at any rate till a somewhat advanced pe- 
riod of life. A governess, if she were 
given to falling in love, could hardly per- 
form her duties in life. No doubt, not to 
be- a governess, but a young lady free from 
the embarrassing necessity of earning 
bread, free to have a lover and a husband, 
would be upon the whole nicer. So it is 
nicer to be born to £10,000 a year than to 
have to wish for £500. Lady Fawn could 
talk excellent sense on this subject by the 
hour, and always admitted that much was 
due to a governess who knew her place and 
did her duty. She was very fond of Lucy 
Morris, and treated her dependent with 
affectionate consideration ; but she did not 
approve of visits from Mr. Frank Grey- 
stock. Lucy, blushing up to the eyes, 
had once declared that she desired to have 
no personal visitors at Lady Fawn’s house ; 
bat that, as regarded her own friendships, 
the matter was one for her own bosom. 
“ Dear i\Iiss ^lorris,” Lady Fawn had 
said, “ we understand each other so per- 
fectly, and you are so good, that I am 
quite sure everything will be as it ought 
to be.” Lady Fawn lived down at Rich- 
mond, all the 5 "ear through, in a large old- 
fashioned house with a large old-fashioned 
garden, called Fawn Court. xVfter that 
speech of hers to Lucy, Frank Grey stock 
did not call again at Fawn Court for many 
months, and it is possible that her ladyship 
l:ad said a word also to him. Bat Lady Eu- 
stace, with her pretty little pair of gray po- 
nies, would sometimes drive down to Rich- 
mond to see her “dear little old friend” 
Lucy, and her visits were allowed. Lady 
Fawn had expressed an opinion among 
her daughters that she did not see any 
harm in Lady Eustace. She thought that 
she rather liked Lady Eustace. But then 
Lady Fawn hated Lady Linlithgow as only 
two old women can hate each other ; and 
she had not heard t!ie story of the diamond 
necklace. 

Lucy Morris certainly was a treasure — a 
treasure though no heroine. She was a 
sweetly social, genial little human being 
whose presence in the house was ever felt 
ta be like sunshine. She was never for- 
ward, but never bashful. She was always 
open to familiar intercourse without ever 
putting herself forward. There was no 
man or woman with whom she would not 
so talk as to make the man or woman feel 
that the conversation was remarkably 
pleasant, and she could do the same with 


any child. She was an active, mindful, 
bright, energetic little thing to whom no 
work ever came amiss. She had cata- 
logued the library, which had been col- 
lected by the late Lord Fawn with pecu- 
liar reference to the Christian theology of 
the third and fourth centuries. She had 
planned the new flower-garden, though 
Lady Fawn thought that she had done 
that herself. She had been invaluable 
during Clara Fawn’s long illness. She 
knew every rule at croquet, and could 
play piquet. When the girls got up cha- 
rades they had to acknowledge that every- 
thing depended on Miss INIorris. They 
were good-natured, plain, unattractive 
girls, who spoke of her to her face as one 
who could easily do anything to which she 
might put her hand. Lady Fawn did 
really love her. Lord Fawn, the eldest son, 
a young man of about thirtv-five, a peer 
of Parliament and an Under-Secretary of 
State, very prudent and very diligent, of 
whom his mother and sisters stood in great 
awe, consulted her frequently and made 
no secret of his friendship. The mother 
knew her awful son well, •and was afraid 
of nothing wrong in that direction. Lord 
Fawn had suffered a disappointment in 
love, but he had consoled himself with 
blue books, and mastered his passion by 
incessant attendance at the India Board. 
The lady he had loved had been rich, and 
Lord Fawn was poor ; but nevertheless he 
had mastered his passion. There was no 
fear that his feelings toward the governess 
would become too warm ; nor was it likely 
that ^liss Morris should encounter danger 
in regard to him. It was quite an under- 
stood thing in the family that Lord Fawn 
must marry money. 

Lucy Morris was indeed a treasure. No 
brighter face ever looked into another to 
seek sympathy there, either in mirth or 
woe. There was a gleam in her eyes that 
was almost magnetic, so sure was she to 
obtain by it that community of interest 
which she desired, though it were but for 
a moment. Lord Fawn was pompous, 
slow, dull, and careful ; but even he had 
given way to it at once. Lady Fawn, too, 
was very careful, but she had owned to 
herself long since that she could not bear 
to look forward to any permanent sever- 
ance. Of course Lucy would be made 
over to the Hittaways, whose mother lived 
in Warwick Square, and whose father was 
Chairman of the Board of Civil Appeals. 
The Hittaways were the only grandchil- 


20 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


dren with whom Lady Fawn had as yet 
been blessed, and of course Lucy must go 
to the Hittaways. 

She was but a little thing ; and it can- 
not be said of' her, as of Lady Eustace, 
that she was a beauty. The charm of her 
face consisted in the peculiar, watery 
brightness of her eyes, in the corners of 
which it would always seem that a dia- 
mond of a tear was lurking whenever any 
matter of excitement was afoot. Her 
light-brown hair was soft and smooth and 
pretty. As hair it was very well, but it 
had no specialty. Her mouth was some- 
what large, but full of ever-varying ex- 
pression. Her forehead was low and 
broad, with prominent temples, on which 
it was her habit to clasp tightly her little 
outstretched fingers, as she sat listening to 
you. Of listeners she was the very best, 
for she would always be saying a word or 
two, just to help you — the best word that 
could be spoken — and then again she 
would be hanging on your lips. There 
are listeners who show by their mode of 
listening that they listen as a duty, not 
because they are interested. Lucy Morris 
■\ras not such a one. She would take up 
your subject, whatever it was, and make 
it her own. There was forward just then 
a question as to whether the Sawab of 
lilygawb should have twenty millions of 
rupees paid to him and be placed ujDon a 
throne, or whether he should be kept in 
prison all his life. The British world 
generally could not be made to interest it- 
self about the Sawab, but Lucy positively 
mastered the subject, and almost got Lord 
Fawn into a difficulty by persuading him 
to stand up against his chief on behalf of 
the injured Prince. 

What else can be said of her face or per- 
sonal appearance that will interest a read- 
er? When she smiled there was the dain- 
tiest little dimple on her cheek. And 
when she laughed, that little nose, which 
was not as well-shaped a nose as it might 
have been, would almost change its shape 
and cock itself up in its mirth. Her 
hands were very thin and long, and so 
were her feet — by no means models as 
were tliose of her friend Lady Eustace. 
She was a little, thin, quick, graceful 
creature, whom it was impossible that you 
should see without wishing to have near 
you. A most unselfish little creature she 
was, but one who had a well-formed idea 
of her own identity. She was quite re- 
solved to be somebody among her fellow- 1 


creatures — not somebody in the way of 
‘ marrying a lord or a rich man, or some- 
body in the way of being a beauty, or 
somebody as a wit, but somebody as hav- 
ing a purpose and a use in life. She was 
the humblest little thing in the world in 
regard to an}’’ possible putting of herself 
forward or needful putting of herself 
back ; and yet, to herself, nobody was her 
superior. What she had was her own, 
whether it was the old gray silk dress 
which she had bought with the money she 
had earned, or the wit which nature had 
given her. And Lord Fawn’s title was 
his own, and Lady Fawn’s rank her own. 
She coveted no man’s possessions, and no 
woman’s ; but she was minded to hold by 
her own. Of present advantages or dis- 
advantages — whether she had the one or 
suffered from the other — she thought not 
at all. It was her fault that she had 
nothing of feminine vanity. But no man 
or woman was ever more anxious to be ef- 
fective, to persuade, to obtain belief, sym- 
pathy, and cooperation — not for any re- 
sult personal to herself, but because by 
obtaining these things she could be effec- 
tive in the object then before her, be it 
what it might. 

One other thing may be told of her. 
She had given her heart, for good and all, 
as she owned to herself, to Frank Grey- 
stock. She had owned to herself that it 
was so, and had owned to herself that 
nothing could come of it. Frank was be- 
coming a man of mark, but was becoming 
a man of mark without much money. Of 
all men he was the last who could afford 
to marry a governess. And then, more- 
over, he had never said a word to make 
her think that he loved her. He had 
called on her once or twice at Fawn Court, 
as why should he not ? Seeing that there 
had been friendship between the families 
for so many years, who could complain of 
that? Lady Fawn, however, had not 
complained; but just said a word. A 
word in season, how good is it? Lucy 
did not much regard the word spoken to 
herself ; but when she reflected that a 
word must also have been spoken to Mr. 
Greystock — otherwise how should it have 
been that he never came again — that she 
did not like. 

In herself she regarded this passion of 
hers as a healthy man regards the loss of 
a leg or an arm. It is a great nuisance, 
a loss that maims the whole life, a misfor- 
tune to be much regretted. But because 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


a leg is gone, everything is not gone. A 
man 'W'ith a wooden leg may stump about 
through much action, and may enjoy the 
keenesjt pleasures of humanity. He has 
his eyes left to him, and his ears, and his 
intellect. He will not break his heart for 
the loss of that leg. And so it was with 
Lucy Morris. She would still stump 
about and be very active. Eyes, ears, 
and intellect were left to her. Looking at 
her position, she told herself that a happy 
love could hardly have been her lot in life. 
Lady Fawn, she thought, was right. A 
governess should make up her mind to do 
without a love#* She had given away her 
heart, and yet she would do without a 
lover. When, on one dull, dark afternoon, 
as she was thinking of all this. Lord Fawn 
suddenly put into her hands a cruelly 
long printed document respecting the 
Sawab, she went to work upon it imme- 
diately. As she read it, she could not re- 
frain from thinking how wonderfully 
Frank Greystock would plead the cause 
of the Indian prince, if the privilege of 
pleading it could be given to him. 

The spring had come round, with May 
and the London butterflies, at the time at 
which our story begins, and during six 
months Frank Greystock had not been at 
Fawn Court. Then one day Lady Eus- 
tace came down with her ponies, and her 
footman, and a new dear friend of hers. Miss 
Macnulty. While Miss Macnulty was be- 
ing honored by Lady Fawn, Lizzie had 
retreated to a corner with her old dear 
friend Lucy Morris. It was pretty to see 
how so wealthy and fashionable a woman 
as Lady Eustace could show so much 
friendship to a governess. “Have you 
seen Frank lately? ” said Lady Eustace, 
referring to her cousin the barrister. 

“ Not for ever so long,” said Lucy with 
her cheeriest smile. 

“ He is not going to prove a false 
knight? ” asked Lady Eustace, in her 
lowest whisper. 

“ I don’t know that Mr. Greystock is 
much given to knighthood at all,” said 
Lucy, “ unless it is to being made Sir 
Francis by his party.” 

“ Nonsense, my dear ; as if I didn’t 
know. I suppose Lady Fawn has been 
interfering, like an old cat as she is.” 

“ She is not an old cat, Lizzie ! and I 
won’t hear her called so. If you think 
.so, you shouldn’t come here. And she 
hasn’t interfered. That is, she has I 


21 

done nothing that she ought not to have 
done.” 

“ Then she has interfered,” said Lady 
Eustace, as she got up and walked across 
the room with a sweet smile to the old 
cat. 


CHAPTER IV. 

FRANK GREYSTOCK. 

Frank Greystock the barrister was the 
only son of the Dean of Bobsborough. 
Now the dean had a family of daughters — 
not quite so numerous indeed as that of 
Lady Fawn, for there were only three of 
them — and was by no means a rich man. 
Unless a dean have a private fortune, or 
has chanced to draw the happy lot of 
Durham in the lottery of deans, he can 
hardly be wealthy. At Bobsborough the 
dean was endoived with a large, rambling, 
picturesque, uncomfortable house, and 
with £1,500 a year. In regard to per- 
sonal property, it may be asserted of all 
the Greystocks that they never had any. 
They were a family of which the males 
would surely come to be deans and ad- 
mirals, and the females would certainly 
find husbands. And they lived on the 
good things of the world, and mixed wTth 
wealthy people. But they never had any 
money. The Eustaces always had money 
and the Bishop of Bobsborough was 
wealthy. The dean was a man very dif- 
ferent from his brother, the admiral, who 
had never paid anybody anything. The 
dean did pay ; but he w*as a little slow in 
his payments, and money with him was 
never plentiful. In these circumstances 
it became very expedient that Frank 
Greystock should earn his bread early in 
life. 

Nevertheless he had chosen a profession 
which is not often lucrative at first. He 
had been called to the bar, and had gone, 
and was still going, the circuit in which 
lies the cathedral city of Bobsborough. 
Bobsborough is not much of a town, and 
was honored with the judges’ visits only 
every other circuit. Frank began pretty 
well ; gett'ing some little work in London, 
and perhaps nearly enough to pay the 
cost of the circuit out of the county in 
which the cathedral was situated. But he 
began life after that impecunious fashion 
for which the Greystocks have been noted. 
Tailors, robemakers, and booksellers gave 
him trust, and did believe that they would 


22 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


get their money. And any persistent 
tradesman did get it. He did not actually 
hoist the black flag of impecuniosity, and 
proclaim his intention of preying generally 
upon the retail dealers, as his uncle the 
admiral had done. But he became known 
as a young man with whom money was 
“ tight.” All this had been going on for 
three or four years before he had met Lucy 
Morris at the deanery. He W'as then 
eight-and-twenty, and had been four years 
called. He was thirty when old Lady 
Fawn hinted to him that he had better not 
pay any more visits at Fawn Court. 

But things had much altered with him 
of late. At the time of that visit to the 
deanery he had made a sudden start in his 
profession. The corporation of the city 
of London had brought an action against 
the Bank of England with reference to 
certain alleged encroachments, of which 
action, considerable as it was in all its in- 
terests, no further notice need be taken 
here than is given by the statement that a 
great deal of money in this cause had 
found its way among the lawyers. Some 
of it penetrated into the pocket of Frank 
Greystock ; but he earned more than 
money, better than money, out of that af- 
fair. It was attributed to him by the at- 
torneys that the Bank of England was saved 
from the necessity of reconstructing all its 
bullion cellars^ and he had made his char- 
acter for industry. In the year after that 
the Bobsborough people were rather driven 
into a corner in search of a clever young 
Conservative candidate for the borough, 
and Frank Greystock was invited to stand. 
It was not thought that there was much 
chance of success, and the dean was against 
it. But Frank liked the honor and glory of 
the contest, and so did Frank’s mother. 
Frank Greystock stood, and at the time in 
which he was warned away from Fawn 
Court had been nearly a ^ear in Parlia- 
ment. “ Of course it does interfere with 
one’s business,” he had said to his fa- 
ther; “but then it brings one business 
also. A man with a seat in Parliament 
who shows that he means work will al- 
ways get nearly as much work as he can 
do.” Such Avas Frank’s exposition to his 
father. It may perhaps not be found to 
hold water in all cases. Mrs. Dean was 
of course delighted with her son’s success, 
and so were the girls. Women like to 
feel that the young men belonging to them 
are doing something in the world, so that 
a reflected glory may be theirs. It Avas 


pleasant to talk of Frank as member for 
the City. Brothers do not always care 
much for a brother’s success, but a sister 
is generally sympathetic. If Frank would 
only marry money, there was nothing he 
might not achieve. That he would live to 
sit on the woolsack was now almost a cer- 
tainty to the dear old lady. But in order 
that he might sit there comfortably it Avas 
necessary that he should at least abstain 
from marrying a poor Avife. For there 
was fear at the deanery also in regard to 
Lucy Morris. 

“ That notion of marrying money, as 
you call it,” Frank said to his second sis- 
ter, Margaret, “ is the most disgusting 
idea in the world.” 

“ It is as easy to love a girl who has 
something as one who has nothing,” said 
Margaret. 

“ No, it is not ; because the girls with 
money are scarce, and those without it 
are plentiful — an argument of Avhich I 
don’t suppose you see the force.” Then 
Margaret for the moment was snubljed 
and retired. 

“ Indeed, Frank, I think Lady FuAvn 
was right,” said the mother. 

“ And I think she was quite wrong. If 
there be anything in it, it Avon’t be ex- 
pelled by Lady FaAvn’s interference. Do 
you think I should alloAV Lady FaAvn to 
tell me not to choose such or such a wo- 
man for my Avife? ” 

“ It’s the habit of seeing her, my dear. 
Nobody loves Lucy Morris better than I 
do. We all like her. But, dear Frank, 
would it do for you to make her your 
wife? ” 

Frank Greystock was silent for a mo- 
ment, and then he answered his mother’s 
question. “ I am not quite sure whether it 
would or would not. But I do think this: 
that if I were bold enough to marry now, 
and to trust all to the future, and could 
get Lucy to be my wife, I should be doing 
a great thing. I doubt, however, whether 
I have the courage.” All of which made 
the dean’s wife uneasy. 

The reader Avho has read so far will per- 
haps think that Frank Greystock was in 
love with Lucy as Lucy was in love with 
him. But such Avas not exactly the case. 
To be in love as an absolute, well-marked, 
acknowledged fact, is the condition of a 
woman more frequently and more readily 
than of a man. Such is not the common 
theory on the matter, as it is the man’s 
business to speak, and the woman’s busi- 


IHE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


23 


ness to be retifeent. And the woman is 
presumed to hare kept her heart free from 
any load of love till she may accept the 
burden with an assurance that it shall be- 
come a joy and a comfort to her. But 
such presumptions, though they may be 
very useful for the regulation of conduct, 
may not always be true. It comes more 
within the scope of a woman’s mind than 
of a man’s to think closely and decide 
sharply on such a matter. With a man it 
is often chance that settles the question 
for him. He resolves to propose to a wo- 
man, or proposes without resolving, be- 
cause she LS close to him. Frank Grey- 
stock ridiculed the idea of Lady Fawn’s 
interference in so high a matter as his 
love — or abstinence from love. Neverthe- 
less, had he been made a welcome guest at 
Fawn Court, he would undoubtedly have 
told his love to Lucy ^lorris. lie was 
not a welcome guest, but had been ban- 
ished ; and, as a consequence of that ban- 
ishment, he had formed no resolution in 
regard to Lucy, and did not absolutely 
know whether she was necessary to him or 
not. But Lucy Morris knew all about it. 

Moreover, it frequently happens with 
men that they fail to analyze these things, 
and do not make out for themselves anj^ 
clear definition of what their feelings are 
or what they mean. We hear that a man 
has behaved badly to a girl, when the be- 
havior of which he has been guilty has re- 
sulted simply from want of thought. He 
has found a certain companionship to be 
agreeable to him, and he has accepted the 
pleasure without inquiry. Some vague 
idea has floated across his brain that the 
world is wrong in supposing that such 
friendship cannot exist without marriage 
or question of marriage. It is simply 
friendship. And yet were his friend to 
tell him that she intended to give herself 
in marriage elsewhere he would sufier all 
the pangs of jealousy, and would imagine 
himself to be horribly ill-treated. To have 
such a friend — a friend whom he cannot 
or will not make his wife — is no injury 
to him. To him it is simply a delight, an 
excitement in life, a thing to be known to 
himself only and not talked of to others, 
a source of pride and inward exultation. 
It is a joy to think of when he wakes, and 
a consolation in his little troubles. It dis- 
pels the weariness of life, and makes a 
green spot of holiday within his daily 
work. It is indeed death to her; but he 
does not know it. Frank Greystock did ! 


think that he could not marry Lucy Mor- 
ris without making an imprudent plunge 
into deep water, and yet he felt that Lady 
Fawn was an ill-natured old woman for 
hinting to him that he had better not, for 
the present, continue his visits to Fawn 
Court. “Of course you understand me, 
Mr. Greystock,” she had said, meaning to 
be civil. “ When Miss Morris has left us 
— should she ever leave us — I should be 
most happy to see you.” “ What on 
earth would take me to Fawn Court if 
Lucy were not there ? ” he said to himself, 
not choosing to appreciate Lady Fawn’s 
civility. 

Frank Greystock was at this time near- 
ly thirty years old. He was a good-look- 
ing, but not a strikingly handsome man, 
thin, of moderate height, with sharp, gray 
eyes; a face clean shorn, with the excep- 
tion of a small whisker ; with Aviry, strong 
dark hair,Avhich was already beginning to 
show a tinge of gray — the very opposite in 
appearance to his late friend, Sir Florian 
Eustace. He was quick, ready-witted, 
self-reliant, and not over scrupulous in 
the outward things of the Avorld. He Avas 
desirous of doing his duty to others, but he 
was specially desirous that others should do 
their duty to him. He intended to get on 
in the AA’orld, and believed that happiness 
was to be achieved by success. He was cer- 
tainly made for the profession which he had 
adopted. His father, looking to certain 
morsels of Church patronage which occa- 
sionally came in his way, and to the fact 
that he and the bishop were on most 
friendly terms, had wished his son to take 
orders. But Frank had known himself 
and his own qualities too well to folloAV 
his father’s advice. He had chosen to bo 
a barrister, and noAV at thirty Avas in Par- 
liament. 

He had been asked to stand for Bobsbor- 
ough in the Conservative interest, and as 
a Conservative he had been returned. 
Those who invited him kneAv probably but 
little of his OAvn political beliefs or feelings 
— did not, probably, know that he had 
any. His father Avas a fine old Tory of the 
ancient school, who thought things Avere 
going from bad to Avorse, but was able to 
live happily in spite of his anticipations. 
The dean was one of those Old-World 
politicians — we meet them every day, and 
they are generally very plejisant people — 
who enjoy the politics of the side to which 
they belong without any special belief in 
them. If pressed hard, they will almost 


24 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


own that their so-called convictions are 
prejudices. But not for worlds would 
they be rid of them. When two or three 
of them meet together, they are as free- 
masons, who are bound by a pleasant 
bond which separates them from the outer 
world. They feel among themselves that 
everything that is being done is bad, even 
though that everything is done by their 
own party. It was bad to interfere with 
Charles, bad to endure Cromwell, bad to 
banish James, bad to put up with William. 
The House of Hanover was bad. All in- 
terference W'ith prerogative has been bad. 
The Reform bill was very bad. Encroach- 
ment on the estates of the bishops was 
bad. Emancipation of Roman Catho- 
lics was the worst of all. Abolition of 
corn-laws, church-rates, and oaths and 
tests were all bad. The meddling with 
the Universities has been grievous. The 
treatment of the Irish Church has been 
Satanic. The overhauling of schools is 
most injurious to English education. Edu- 
cation bills and Irish land bills were all 
bad. Every step taken has been bad. 
And yet to them old England is of all 
countries in the world the best to live in, 
and is not at all the less comfortable be- 
rause of the changes that have been made. 
These people are ready to grumble at 
every boon conferred on them, and yet to 
enjoy every boon. They know, too, their 
privileges, and, after a fashion, under- 
stand their position. It is picturesque, 
and it pleases them. To have been al- 
ways in the right and yet always on the 
losing side ; ‘always being ruined, always 
under persecution from a wild spirit of 
republican-demagoguism, and yet never 
to lose anything, not even position or pub- 
lic esteem, is pleasant enough. A huge, 
living, , daily increasing grievance that 
does one no palpable harm is the hap- 
piest possession that a man can have. 
There is a large body of such men in Eng- 
land, and, personally, they are the very 
salt of the nation. He who said that all 
Conservatives are stupid did not know 
them. Stupid Conservatives there may 
be — and there certainly are very stupid 
Radicals. The well-educated, widely- 
read Conservative, who is well assured 
that all good things are gradually being 
brought to an end by the voice of the peo- 
ple, is generally the pleasantest man to be 
met. But he is a Buddhist, possessing a 
religious creed which is altogether dark 
and mysterious to the outer world. Those 


who watch the ways of the advanced 
Buddhist hardly know whether the man 
does believe himself in his hidden god, but 
men perceive that he is respectable, self- 
satisfied, and a man of note. It is of 
course from the society of such that con- 
servative candidates are to be sought; 
but, alas, it is hard to indoctrinate young 
minds with the old belief since new theo- 
ries of life have become so rife ! 

Nevertheless Frank Greystock, when he 
was invited to stand for Bobsborough in 
the Conservative interest, had not for a 
moment allowed any political heterodoxy 
on his own part to stand in the way of his 
advancement. It may, perhaps, be the 
case that a barrister is less likely to be in- 
fluenced by personal convictions in taking 
his side in politics than any other man 
who devotes himself to public affairs. No 
slur on the profession is intended by this 
suggestion. A busy, clever, useful man, 
who has been at work all his life, finds 
that his own progress toward success de- 
mands from him that he shall become a 
politician. The highest work of a lawj^er 
can only be reached through political 
struggle. As a large-minded man of the 
world, peculiarly conversant with the fact 
that every question has two sides, and 
that as much may often be said on one 
side as on the other, he has probably not 
become violent in his feelings as a politi- 
cal partisan. Thus he sees that there is 
an opening here or an opening there, and 
the offence in either case is not great to 
him. AVith Frank Greystock the matter 
was very easy. There certainly was no 
apostasy . He had now and again attack- 
ed his father’s ultra Toryism, and rebuked 
his mother and sisters when they spoke of 
Gladstone as Apollyon, and called John 
Bright the Abomination of Desolation. 
But it was easy for him to fancy himself a 
Conservative, and as such he took his seat 
in the House without any feeling of dis- 
comfort. 

During the first four months of his first 
session he had not spoken, but he had 
made himself useful. He had sat on one 
or two committees, though as a barrister 
he might have excused himself, and had 
done his best to learn the forms of the 
House. But he had already begun to find 
that the time which he devoted to Parlia- 
ment was much wanted for his profession. 
Money was very necessary to him. Then 
a new idea was presented to him. 

John Eustace and Greystock were very 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


25 


intimate, as ajso had been Sir Florian and ' 
(Jreysteck. “ I tell you* what 1 wish ! 
you’d do, Greystock,” Eustace said to him 
one day, as they were standing idle to- 
gether in the lobby of the House. For 
John Eustace was also in Parliament. 

“ Anything to oblige you, my friend.” 

“ It’s only a trifle,” said Eustace. 
“Just to marry your cousin, my broth- 
ei-’s widow.” 

“ By Jove, I wish I had the chance! ” 

“ I don’t see why you shouldn’t. She 
Ls sure to marry somebody, and at her age 
so she ought. She’s not twenty-three yet. 
W e could trust you — with the child and 
all the rast of it. As it is, she is giving 
us a deal of trouble.” 

“ But, my dear fellow ” 

“ I know she’s fond of you. You were 
dining there last Sunday.” 

“ And so was Fawn. Lord Fawn is the 
man to marry Lizzie. You see if lie 
doesn’t. He was uncommonly sweet on 
her the other night, and really interested 
her about the Sawab.” 

“She’ll never be Lady Fawn,” said 
John Eustace. “ And to tell the truth, I 
shouldn’t care to have to deal with Lord 
Fawn. He would be infinitely trouble- 
some ; and I can hardly wash my hands 
of her afiairs. She’s worth nearly £5,000 
a year as long as she lives, and I really 
don’t think that she’s much amiss.” 

“Much amiss! I don’t know whether 
she’s not the prettiest woman I ever saw,” 
said Greystock. 

“ Yes ; but I mean in conduct, and all 
that. She is making herself queer ; and 
Camperdown, our lawyer, means to jump 
upon her; but it’s only because she 
doesn’t know what she ought to be at, and 
what she ought not. You could tell her.” 

“ It wouldn’t suit me at all to have to 
quarrel with Camperdown,” said the bar- 
rister, laughing. 

“You and he would settle everything 
in five minutes, and it would save me a 
world of trouble,” said Eustace. 

“ Fawn is your man ; take my word for 
it,” said Greystock, as he walked back 
into the House. 

Dramatists, when they write their plays, 
have a delightful privilege of prefixing a 
list of their personages ; and the drama- 
tists of old used to tell us who was in love 
with whom, and what were the blood re- 
lationships of all the persons. In such a 
narrative as this, any proceeding of that 


' kind would be unusual, and therefore the 
! poor narrator has been driven to expend 
his four first chapters in the mere task of 
introducing his characters. He regrets 
the length of these introductions, and will 
now begin at once the action of his story. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE EUSTACE NECKLACE. 

John Eustace, Lady Eustace’s brother- 
in-law, had told his friend Greystock, the 
lady’s cousin, that Mr. CampSrdown the 
lawyer intended to “jump upon” that 
lady. Making such allowance and deduc- 
tion from the force of these words as the 
slang expression requires, we may say 
that John Eustace was right. Mr. Cam- 
perdown was in earnest, and did intend to 
obtain the restoration of those jewels. 
Mr. Camperdown was a gentleman of 
about sixty, who had been lawyer to Sir 
Florian’s father, and whose father Iiad 
been lawyer to Sir Florian’s grandfather. 
His connection with the property and Avith 
the family was of a nature to allow him to 
take almost any liberty Avith the Eustaces. 
When therefore John Eustace, in regard 
to those diamonds, had pleaded that the 
heir in his long minority would obtain 
ample means of buying more diamonds, 
and of suggesting that the plunder for the 
sake of tranquillity should be alloAved, Mr. 
CamperdoAvn took upon himself to say 

that he’d ‘ ‘ be if he’d put up with it. ’ ’ 

“ I really don’t know what you are to do,” 
said John Eustace. 

“ I’ll file a bill in Chancery if it’s nec- 
essary,” said the old laAvyer. “Heaven 
on earth ! as trustee how are you to recon- 
cile yourself to such a robbery? They 
represent £500 a year foreAer, and she is 
to have them simply because she chooses 
to take them ! ” 

“I suppose Florian could have given 
them away. At any rate he could have 
sold them.” 

“ I don’t know that,” said Mr. Camper- 
down. “ I have not looked as yet, but I 
think that this necklace has been made an 
heirloom. At any rate it represents an 
amount of property that shouldn’t and 
couldn’t be made over legally without 
some visible evidence of transfer. It’s as 
clear a case of stealing as I ever knew in 
my life, and as bad a case. She hadn’t a 
farthing, and she has got the whole of the 
Ayrshire property for her life. She go^ 


26 


THE EUSTACE ITAMONDS. 


about and tells everybody that it’s hers 
to sell to-morrow if she pleases to sell 
it. No, John,” — Mr. Camperdown had 
known Eustace when he wa5 a boy, and 
had watched him become a man, and 
hadn’t yet learned to drop the name by 
which he had called the boy, — “ we 
mustn’t allow it. What do you think of 
her applying to me for an income to sup- 
port her child, a baby not yet two years 
old?” Mr. Camperdown had been very 
adverse to all the circumstances of Sir 
Elorian’s marriage, and had subjected 
himself to Sir Elorian’s displeasure for ex- 
l)ressing his opinion. He had tried to ex- 
plain that as the lady brought no money 
into the family she was not entitled to 
such a jointure as Sir Florian was deter- 
mined to lavish upon her. But Sir Flo- 
rian had been obstinate, both in regard to 
the settlement and the will. It t^'as not 
till after Sir Florian ’s death that this ter- 
rible matter of the jewels had even sug- 
gested itself to Mr. Camperdown. The 
jewellers in whose custody the things had 
been since the death of the late Lady Eus- 
tace had mentioned the affair to him im- 
mediately on the young widow’s return 
from Naples. Sir Florian had withdrawn, 
not all the jeAvels, but by far the most val- 
uable of them, from the jewellers’ care on 
his return to London from their marriage 
tour to Scotland, and this was the result. 
The jewellers were at that time without 
any doubt as to the date at which the 
necklace was taken from them. 

Mr. Camperdown ’s first attempt was 
made by a most courteous and even com- 
plimentary note, in which he suggested to 
Lady Eustace that it would be for the ad- 
vantage of all parties that the family jew- 
els should be kept together. Lizzie, as 
she read this note, smiled, and said to her- 
self that she did not exactl}’- see how her 
own interests would be best served by 
such an arrangement. She made no an- 
swer to ^Ir. Camperdown ’s note. Some 
months after this, when the heir was born, 
and as Lady Eustace was passing through 
London on her journey from Bobsborough 
to Portray, a meeting had been arranged 
between her and !Mr. Camperdown. She 
had endeavored by all the wiles she kneAV 
to avoid this meeting, but it had been 
forced upon her. She had been almost 
given to understand that unless she sub- 
mitted to it, she would not be able to 
draw her income from the Portray proper- 
ty. Messrs. [Mowbray & [Mopus had ad- 


vised her to submit. “ My husband gave 
me a necklace, and they want me to give 
it back,” she had said to Mr. Mopus. 
“ Do nothing of the kind,” Mr. Mopus 
had replied. “If you find it necessary, 
refer Mr. Camperdown to us. We will 
answer him.” The interview had taken 
place, during which Mr. Camperdown 
took the trouble to explain very plainly 
and more than once that the income from 
the Portray property belonged to Lady 
Eustace for her life only. It would after 
her death be rejoined, of necessity, to the 
rest of the Eustace property. This was 
repeated to Lady Eustace in the presence 
of John Eustace ; but she made no remark 
on being so informed. “You understand 
the nature of the settlement, Lady Eus- 
tace?” Mr. Camperdown had said. “1 
believe I understand everything,” she re- 
plied. Then, just at the close of the in- 
tetview, he asked a question about the 
jewels. Lady Eustace at first made no 
reply. “ They might as well be sent back 
to Messrs. Garnett,” said Mr. Camper- 
down. “ I don’t know that I have any to 
send back,” she answered; and then she 
escaped before Mr. Camperdown was able 
to arrange any further attack. “ I can 
manage with her better by letter than 1 
can personally,” he said to John Eustace. 

Lawyers such as Mr. Camperdown are 
slow, and it was three or four months after 
that when he wrote a letter in his own 
name to Lady Eustace, explaining to her, 
still courteously, that it was hLs business 
to see that the property of the Eustace 
family was placed in fit hands, and that a 
certain valuable necklace of diamonds, 
which was an heirloom of the family, and 
which was undeniably the property of the 
heir, was believed to be in her custody. 
As such property was peculiarly subject 
to risks, would she have the kindness to 
make arrangements for handing over the 
necklace to the custody of the Messrs. 
Garnett ? To this letter Lizzie made no 
answer whatever, nor did she to a second 
note, calling attention to the first. When 
John Eustace told Greystock that Cam- 
perdown intended to “jump upon ” Lady 
Eustace, the following further letter had 
been written by the firm, but up to that 
time Lizzie had not replied to it : 

“ 62 New Square, Lincoln’s Inn, 

“ 5 May, 186—. 

“ Madam : It is our duty as attorneys 
acting on behalf of the estate of your lato 


THE EUSTACE DIAIMONDS. 


27 


husband, Sir Florian Eustace, and in the in- 
terest of your son, his heir, to ask for res- 
titution ofa certain valuable diamond neck- 
lace which is believed to be now in the 
possession of your ladyship. Our senior 
partner, Mr. Camperdown, has written to 
your ladyship more than once on the sub- 
ject, but has not been honored with any 
reply. Doubtless had there been any mis- 
take as to the necklace being in your hands 
we would have been so informed. The 
diamonds were withdrawn from ^Messrs. 
Garnett, the jewellers, by Sir Florian 
soon after his marriage, and were, n(f 
doubt, intrusted to your keeping. They 
are appanages of the family which should 
not be in your hands as the widow of the 
late baronet, and they constitute an 
amount of property which certainly can- 
not be alienated from the family without 
inquiry or right, as might any trifling ar- 
ticle either of use or ornament. The 
jewels are valued at over £10,000. 

“We are reluctantly compelled, by the 
fact of your having left unanswered three 
letters from Mr. Camperdown, Senior, on 
the subject, to explain to you that if at- 
tention be not paid to this letter, we shall 
be obliged, in the performance of our duty, 
to take legal steps for the restitution of 
the property. 

“We have the honor to be. Madam, 

“ Your lad^’ship's most obedient servants, 
“ CamperdowxV & Son. 

“ To Lady Eustace,” etc., etc. 

A few days after it was sent, old Mr. 
Camperdown got the letter-book of the 
o2Bce and read the letter to John Eustace. 

“ I don’t see how you’re to get them,” 
said Eustace. 

“ We’ll throw upon her the burden of 
showing that they have become legally 
her property. She can’t do it.” 

“ Suppose she sold them? ” 

“ We’ll follow them up. Ten thousand 
pounds, my dear John ! God bless my 
.soul ! it’s a magnificent dowry for a daugh- 
ter — an ample provision for a younger son. 
And she is to be allowed to filch it, as 
other widows filch china cups and a silver 
teaspoon or two ! It’s quite a common 
thing, but I never heard of such a haul as 
this.” 

“ It •vVill be very unpleasant,” said 
Eustace. 

“ And then she still goes about every- 
where declaring that the Portray property 


is her own. She’s a bad lot. I knew it 
from the first. Of course we shall have 
trouble.” Then Mr. Eustace explained 
to the lawyer that their best way out of 
it all would be to get the widow married 
to some respectable husband. She was 
sure to marry sooner or later, so John 
Eustace said, and any “ decently decent ” 
fellow would be easier to deal with than 
she herself. “ He must be very inde- 
cently indecent if ho Ls not,” said Mr. 
Camperdown. But Mr. Eustace did not 
name Frank Greystock the barrister as 
the probable future decent husband. 

When Lizzie first got the letter, which 
she did on the day after the visit at Fawn 
Court of which mention has been made, 
she put it by unread for a couple of days. 
She opened it, not knowing the clerk’s 
handwriting, but read only the first line 
and the signature. For two days she 
went on with the ordinary affairs and 
amusements of her life, as though no such 
letter had reached her ; but she was 
thinking of it all the time. The dia- 
monds were in her possession, and she had 
had them valued by her old friend Mr. 
Benjamin, of the firm of Harter & Benja- 
min. Mr. Benjamin had suggested that 
stones of such a value should not be left 
to the risk of an ordinary London house ; 
but Lizzie had felt that if Mr. Benjamin 
got them into his hands, Mr. Benjamin 
might perhaps not return them. Mes.srs. 
Camperdown and Garnett between them 
might form a league with Mr. Benjamin. 
Where would she be, should Mr. Benjamin 
tell her that under some legal sanction he 
had given the jewels up to Mr. Camper- 
down ? She hinted to Mr. Benjamin that 
she would perhaps sell them if she got a 
good ofler. Mr. Benjamin, who was 
very familiar with her, hinted that there 
might be a little family difficulty. “ Oh, 
none in the least,” said Lizzie; “but I 
don’t think I shall part with them.” 
Then she gave Mr. Benjamin an order for 
a strong box, which was supplied to her. 
The strong box, which was so heavy that 
she could barely lift it herself, was now in 
her London bedroom. 

On the morning of the third day she 
read the letter. Miss Macnulty was stay- 
ing with her, but she had not said a word 
to Miss Macnulty about the letter. She 
read it up in her own bedroom and then 
sat down to think about it. Sir Florian, 
as he had handed to her the stones for the 


28 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


purpose of a special dinner party which 
had been given to them when passing 
through London, had told her that they 
were family jewels. “ That setting was 
done for my mother,” he said, “ but it is 
already old. When we are at home again 
they shall be reset.” Then he had added 
some little husband’s joke as to a future 
daughter-in-law who should wear them. 
Neverthsless she was not sure whether 
the fact of their being so handed to her 
did npt make them her own. She had 
spoken a second time to Mr. Mopus, and 
Mr. Mopus had asked Jier whether there 
existed any family deed as to the dia- 
monds. She had heard of no such deed, 
nor did Mr. Camperdown mention such a 
deed. After reading the letter once she 
read it a dozen times ; and then, like a 
woman, made up her mind that her safest 
course would be not to answer it. 

But yet she felt sure that something un- 
pleasant would come of it. Mr. Camper- 
down was not a man to take up such a 
(Xuestion and let it drop. Legal steps ! 
What did legal steps mean, and what 
could they do to her? Would Mr. Cam- 
perdown be able to put her in prison, or 
to take away from her the estate of Por- 
tray ? She could swear that her husband 
had given them to her, and could invent 
any form of words she pleased as accom- 
panying the gift. No one else had been 
near them then. B-ut she was, and felt 
herself to be absolutely, alarmingly igno- 
rant, not only of the laws but of custom in 
such matters. Messrs. Mowbray & ]Mo- 
pus and Mr. Benjamin were the allies to 
whom she looked for guidance; but she 
was wise enough to know that Mowbray 
& Mopus and Harter & Benjamin were 
not trustworthy, whereas Camperdown 
& Son and the jMessrs. Garnett were 
all as firm as rocks and as respectable as 
the Bank of England. Circumstances — 
unfortunate circumstances — drove her to 
Harter & Benjamin and to IMowbray & 
Mopus, while she would have taken so 
much delight in feeling the strong honesty 
of the other people to be on her side ! She 
would have talked to her friends about 
]\Ir. Camperdown and the people at Gar- 
netts’ with so much satisfaction! But 
ease, security, and even respectability 
may be bought too dearly. Ten thousand 
pounds I Was she prepared to surrender 
such a sum as that? She had, indeed, 
already realized the fiict that it might be 


very difficult to touch the money. When 
she had suggested to Mr. Benjamin that 
he should buy the jewels, that worthy 
tradesman had by no means jumped at 
the offer. Of what use to her would be a 
necklace always locked up in an iron box, 
which box, for aught she knew, myrmi- 
dons from Mr. Camperdown might carry 
off during her absence from the house? 
Would it not be better to come to terms 
and surrender? But then what should 
the terms be? 

If only there had been a friend whom 
she could consult — a friend whom she 
could consult on a really friendly footing ! 
— not a simply respectable, off-handed, 
high-minded friend, who would advise her 
as a matter of course to make restitution. 
Her uncle the dean, or her cousin Frank, 
or old Lady Fawn, would be sure to give 
her such advice as that. There are peo- 
ple who are so very high-minded when 
they have to deal with the interests of 
their friends ! What if she were to ask 
Lord Fawn ? 

Thoughts of a second marriage had, of 
course, crossed Lady Eustace’s mind, and 
they were by no means the worst thoughts 
that found a place there. She had a grand 
idea — this selfish, hard-fisted little woman, 
who could not bring herself to abandon the 
plunder on which she had laid her hand — a 
grand idea of surrendering herself and all 
her possessions to a great passion. For 
Florian Eustace she had never cared. She 
had sat down by his side, and looked into 
his handsome face, and read poetry to him, 
because of his wealth, and because it 
had been indispensable to her to settle her- 
self well. And he had been all very well 
— a generous, open-hearted, chivalrous, 
irascible, but rather heavy-minded gentle- 
man ; but she had never been in love with 
him. Now she desired to be so in love 
that she could surrender everything to her 
love. There was as yet nothing of such 
love in her bosom. She had seen no one 
who had so touched her. But she was 
alive to the romance of the thing, and was 
in love with the idea of being in love. 
“ Ah,” she would say to herself in her 
moments of solitude, “ if I had a Corsair 
of my own, how I would sit on watch for 
my lover’s boat by the sea-shore ! ” And 
she believed it of herself that slie could 
do so. 

But it would also be very nice to be a 
peeress- so that she might, without any 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


39 


doubt, be one of the great ladies of Lon- 
don. As a baronet’s widow with a large 
income, she was already almost a great 
lady ; but she was quite alive to a suspi- 
cion that she was not altogether strong in 
her position. The bishop’s people and 
the dean’s people did not quite trust her. 
The Camperdowns and Garnetts utterly 
distrusted her. The Mopuses and Benja- 
mins were more familiar than they would 
be with a really great lady. She was 
sharp -enough to understand all this. 
Should it be Lord Fawn or should it be a 
Corsair? The worst of Lord Fawn was 
the undoubted fact that he was not him- 
self a great man. He could, no doubt, 
make his wife a peerass ; but he was poor, 
encumbered with a host of sisters,, dull as 
a blue-book, and possessed of little beyond 
hLs peerage to recommend him. Ifshecould 
only find a peer, unmarried, with a dash of 
the Corsair about him ! In the mean time 
what was she to do about the jewels ? 

There “was staying with her at this time 
a certain Miss Macnulty, who was related, 
after some distant fashion, to old Lady 
Linlithgow, and who was as utterly des- 
titute of possessions or means of existence 
as any unfortunate, well-born, and mode- 
rately-educated • middle-aged woman in 
London. To live upon her friends, such 
as they might be, was the only mode of 
life within her reach. It was not that she 
had chosen such dependence ; nor, indeed, 
had she endeavored to reject it. It had 
come to her as a matter of course — either 
that or the poorhouse. As to earning her 
bread, except by that attendance which a 
poor friend gives, the idea of any possi- 
bility that way had never entered her 
head. She could do nothing — except 
dress like a lady with the smallest possi- 
ble cost, and endeavor to be obliging. 
Now, at this moment, her condition was 
terribly precarious. She had quarrelled 
with Lady Linlithgow, and had been taken 
in by her old friend Lizzie — her old enemy 
might, perhaps, be a truer expression — 
because of that quarrel. But a perma- 
nent home had not even been promised to 
her ; and poor Miss Macnulty was aware 
that even a permanent home with Lady 
Eustace would not be an unmixed bless- 
ing. In her way, MLss Macnulty was an 
honast woman. 

They were sitting together one May af- 
ternoon in the little back drawing-room in 
Mount street . They had dined early , were 


now drinking tea, and intended to go to 
the opera. It was six o’clock, and was still 
broad day, but the thick colored blind was 
kept across the single window, and the fold- 
ing doors of the room were nearly closed, 
and there was a feeling of evening in the 
room. The necklace during the whole day 
had been so heavy on Lizzie’s heart that she 
had been unable to apply her thoughts to 
the building of that castle in the air in 
which the Corsair was to reign supreme, 
but not alone. “ My dear,*’ she said — she 
generally called Miss Macnulty my dear — 
“you know that box I had made by the 
jewellers.” 

“ You mean the safe.” 

“ Well — yes ; only it isn’t a safe. A 
safe is a great big thing. I had it made 
especially for the diamonds Sir Florian 
gave me.” 

“ I supposed it was so.” 

“ I wonder whether there’s any danger 
about it? ” 

“ If I were you. Lady Eustace, I wouldn’t 
keep them in the house. I should have 
them kept where Sir Florian kept them. 
Suppose anybody should come and murder 
you.” 

“ I’m not a bit afraid of that,” said 
Lizzie. 

“ I should be. And what will you do 
with it when you go to Scotland ? ” 

“ I took them with me before — in my 
own care. I know that wasn’t safe. I 
wish I knew what to do with them.” 

“ There are people who keep such 
things,” said Miss Macnulty. 

Then Lizzie paused a moment. She was 
dying for counsel and for confidence. “ I 
cannot trust them anywhere,” she .said. 
“ It is just possible there may be a lawsuit 
about them.” 

“ How a lawsuit? ” 

“ I cannot explain it all, but I am very 
unhappy about it. They want me to give 
them up ; but my husband gave them to 
me, and for his sake I will not do .so. 
When he threw them around my neck he 
told me that they were my own — ^so he 
did. How can a woman give up such a 
present — from a husband — who is dead? 
As to the value, I care nothing. But I 
won’t do it.” By this time Lady Eustat^ 
was in tears, and had so far succeeded as 
to have produced some amount of belief 
in Miss Macnulty’s mind. 

“ If they are your own, they can’t take 
them from you,” said Miss Macnulty. 


80 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ They shan’t. They shall find that 
I’ve got some spirit left.” Then she re- 
fiected that a real ,Corsair lover would 
protect her jewels for her — would guard 
them against a score of Camperdowns. 
But she doubted whether Lord Fawn would 
do much in that way. Then the door was 
opened, and Lord Fawn was announced. 
It was not at all unusual with Lord Fawn 
to call on the widow at this hour. Mount 
street is not exactly in the way from the 
India Office to the House of Lords ; but a 
Hansom cab can make it almost in the 
way. Of neglect of official duty Lord 
Fawn was never guilty ; but a half hour 
for private business or for relaxation be- 
tween one stage of duty and another — 
can any Minister grudge so much to an 
indefatigable follower ? Lady Eustace had 
been in tears as he was announced, but 
the light of the room was so low that the 
traces of them could hardly be seen. She 
was in her Corsair state of mind, divided 
between her jewels and her poetry, and 
caring not very much for the increased 
rank which Lord Fawn could give her. 
“ The Sawab’s case is coming on in the 
House of Commons this very night,” he 
said, in answer to a question from ^liss 
Macnulty. Then he turned to Lady Eus- 
tace. “ Your cousin, Mr. Greystock, is 
going to ask a question in the House.” 

“ Shall you be there to answer him ? ” 
asked Miss Macnulty innocently. 

“ Oh dear, no. But I shall be present. 
A peer can go, you know.” Then Lord 
Fawn, at considerable length, explained 
to the two ladies the nature and condition 
of the British Parliament. Miss Macnult}’- 
experienced an innocent pleasure in having 
such things told to her by a lord. Lady 
Eustace knew that this was the way in 
which Lord Fawn made love,nnd thought 
that from him it was as good as any other 
way. If she were to marry a second time 
simply with a view of being a peeress, of 
having a respected husband, and making 
good her footing in the world, she would 
as lief listen to parliamentary details and 
the prospects of the Sawab as to any other 
matters. She knew very well that no Cor- 
sair propensities would be forthcoming 
from Lord Fawn. Lord Fawn had just 
worked himself round to the Sawab again, 
when Frank Greystock entered the room. 
“ Now we have both the Houses represent- 
ed,” said Lady Eustace, as she welcomed 
her cousin. 


“ You intend to ask your question about 
the Sawab to-night?” asked Lord Fawn 
with intense interest, feeling that had it 
been his lot to perform that task before he 
went to his couch, he would at this mo- 
ment have been preparing his little speech. 

But Frank Greystock had not come to 
his cousin’s house to talk of the Prince of 
the M3^gawb territory. When his friend 
Eustace had suggested to him that he 
should marry the widow, he had ridiculed 
the idea. But nevertheless he had thought 
of it a good deal. lie was struggling hard, 
working diligently, making for himself a 
character in Parliament, succeeding — so 
said all hislfriends — as a barrister. He 
was a rising young man, one of those 
whose names began to be much in the 
mouths of other men ; but still he was 
poor. It seemed to himself that among 
other good gifts that of economy had not 
been bestowed upon him. He owed a lit- 
tle money, and though he owed it, he 
went on spending his earnings. He want- 
ed just such a lift in the world as a wife 
with an income would give him. As for 
looking about for a girl whom he could 
honestly love, and who should have a for- 
tune of her own, as well as beauty, birth, 
and all the other things — that was out of 
his reach. If he talked to himself of love, 
if he were ever t » acknowledge to himself 
that love was to have sway over him, 
then must Lucy Morris be the mistress of 
his heart. He had come to know enough 
about himself to be aware of that; but he 
knew also that he had said nothing bind- 
ing him to walk in that path. It was 
quite open to him to indulge a discreet 
ambition without dishonor. Therefore he 
also had come to call upon the beautiful 
widow. The courtship with her he knew 
need not' be long. He could ask her to 
marry him to-morrow — as for that matter, 
to-day — without a feeling of hesitation. 
She might accept him, or might reject 
him ; but, as he said to himself, in neither 
case would any harm be done. 

An idea of the same kind flitted across 
Lizzie’s mind as she sat and talked to the 
two gentlemen. She knew that her cou- 
sin Frank was poor, but she thought that 
she could fall in love with him. He m'os 
not exactly a Corsair, but he was a man 
who had certain Corsair propensities. He 
was bold and dashing, unscrupulous and 
clever — a man to make a name for himself, 
and one to whom a woman could endure to 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


81 


be obedient. There could be no question 
as to choice between him and Lord Fawn 
if she were to allow herself to choose by 
liking. And she thought that Frank 
Creystock would keep the necklace, if he 
himself were made to have an interest in 
the necklace ; whereas Lord Fawn would 
undoubtedly surrender it at once to Mr. 
Camperdown. 

Lord Fawn had some slight idea of 
waiting to see the cousin go ; but as Grey- 
stock had a similar idea, and as he was 
the stronger of the two, of course Lord 
Fawn went. lie perhaps remembered that 
the Hansom cab was at the door, costing 
sixpence every fifteen minutes, and that 
he wished to show himself in the House 
of Lords before the peers rose. Miss Mac- 
nulty also left the room, and Frank was 
alone with the widow. 

“ Lizzie,” said he, “ you must be very 
solitary here.” 

“ I am solit .ry.” 

“And hardly happy.” 

“ Anything but happy, Frank. I have 
things that make me very unhappy ; one 
thing that I will tell you if you will let 
me.” 

Frank had almost made up his mind to 
a.sk her on the spot to give him permission 
to console all her sorrows, when there 
came a clattering double knock at the 
door. 

“ They know I shall be at home to no- 
body else now,” said Lady Eustace. 

But Frank Greystock had hardly re- 
gained his self-possession when Miss Mac- 
nulty hurried into the room, and, with a 
look almost of horror, declared that Lady 
Linlithgow was in the parlor. 


CHAPTER VI. 

LADY Linlithgow’s mission. 

“ Lady Linlithgow,” said Frank Grey- 
stock, holding up both his hands. 

“ Yes, indeed,” said Miss Macnulty. 
“ I did not speak to her, but I saw her. 

She ha.s sent her love to Lady Eustace, 

and begs that she will see her.” 

Lady Eustace had been so surprised by 
the announcement that hitherto .she had 
not spoken a word. The quarrel between 
her and her aunt had been of such a na- 
ture that it had seemed to be impossible 
that the old countess should come to Mount 
Btreet. Lizzie had certainly behaved very 


badly to her aunt — about as badly as a 
young woman could behave to an old wo- 
man. She had accepted bread, and .shel- 
ter, and the very clothes on her back from 
her aunt’s bounty, and had rejected even 
the hand of her benefactress the first mo- 
ment that she had bread, and shelter, and 
clothes of her own. And here was Lady 
Linlithgow down-stairs in the parlor, and 
sending up her love to her niece ! “I 
won’t see her,” said Lizzie. 

“ You had better see her,” said Frank. 

“ I can’t see her,” said Lizzie. “ Good 
gracious, my dear, what has she come 
for?” 

“ She says it’s very important,” said 
Miss Macnulty. 

“ Of course you must see her,” said 
Frank. “ Let me get out of the house, 
and then tell the servant to show her up 
at once. Don’t be weak now, Lizzie, and 
I’ll come and find out all about it to-mor- 
row.” 

“Mind you do,” said Lizzie. Then 
Frank took his departure, and Lizzie did 
as she was bidden. “ You remain in here, 
Julia,” she said, “'.so as to be near if I 
want you. She shall eome into the front 
room.” Then, absolutely shaking with 
fear of the approaching evil, she took her 
seat in the largest drawing-room. There 
was still a little delay. Time was given 
to Frank Grej^stock to get away, and to 
do so without meeting Lady Linlithgow 
in the pas.sage. The message was con- 
veyed by Miss Macnulty to the .servant, 
and the same servant opened the front 
door for Frank before he delivered it. 
Lady Linlithgow, too, though very strong, 
was old. She was slow, or perhaps it 
might more properly be .said she wa,s 
stately in her movements. She was one 
of those old women who are undoubtedly 
old women — who in the remembrance of 
younger people seem always to have been 
old women — but on whom old age apixjars 
to have no debilitating- effects. If the 
hand of Lady Linlithgow ever trembled, it 
trembled from anger. If her foot ever fal- 
tered, it faltered for effect. In her way 
Lady Linlithgow was a very powerful hu- 
man being. She knew nothing of fear, 
nothing of charity, nothing of mercy, and 
nothing of the softness of love. She had 
no imagination. She was worldly, covet- 
ous, and not unfrequently cruel. But she 
meant to be true and honest, though she 
often failed in her meaning, and she had 


32 


f 


THE EUSTACE DIAjVIONDS. 


an idea of her -duty in life. She was not 
self-indulgent. She was as hard as an 
oak post, but then she was also as trust- 
worthy. No numan being liked her ; but 
she had the good word of a great many 
human beings. At great cost to her own 
comfort, she had endeavored to do her 
duty to her niece, Lizzie Greystock, when 
Lizzie was homeless. Undoubtedly Lizzie’s 
bed, while it had been spread under her 
aunt’s roof, had not been one of roses; 
but such as it had been, she had endured 
to occupy it while it served her needs. 
She had constrained herself to bear her 
aunt ; but from the moment of her escape 
she had chosen to reject her aunt alto- 
gether. Now her aunt’s hea'^T’ step was 
heard upon the stairs ! Lizzie also was a 
brave woman after a certain fashion. She 
could dare to incur a great danger for an 
adequate object. But she was too young 
as yet to have become mistress of that 
persistent courage which was Lady Lin- 
lithgow’s peculiar possession. 

When the countess entered the drawing- 
room Lizzie rose upon her legs, but did 
not come forward from her chair. The 
old woman was not tall ; but her face was 
long, and at the same time large, square 
at the chin and square at the forehead, 
and gave her almost an appearance of 
height. Her nose was very prominent, 
not beaked, but straight and strong, and 
broad at the bridge, and of a dark-red 
color. Her eyes were sharp and gray. 
Her mouth was large, and over it there 
was almost beard enough for a young 
man’s moustache. Her chin was firm, 
and large, and solid. Her hair was still 
brown, and was only just grizzled in parts. 
Nothing becomes an old woman like gray 
hair, but Lady Linlithgow’s hair would 
never be gra3\ Her appearance, on the 
whole, was not prepossessing, but it gave 
one an idea of honest, real strength. 
What one saw was not buckram, whale- 
bone, paint, and false hair. It was all 
human — hardly feminine, certainly not an- 
gelic, with perhaps a hint in the other 
direction — but a human body, and not a 
thing of pads and patches. Lizzie, as 
she saw her aunt, made up her mind for 
the combat. Who is there that has lived 
to be a man or woman, and has not ex- 
perienced a moment in which a combat 
has impended, and a call for such 
sudden courage has been necessary? 
Alas! sometimes the combat comes, and 


the courage is not there. Lady Eustace 
was not at her ease as she saw her aunt 
enter the room. “Oh, come ye in peace, 
or come ye in war?” she would have 
said had she dared.* Her aunt had sent 
up her love, if the message had been de- 
livered aright; but what of love could 
there be between those two ? The coun- 
tess dashed at once to the matter in hand, 
making no allusion to Lizzie’s ungrateful 
conduct to herself. “Lizzie,” she said, 
“I’ve been asked to come to you by 
Mr. Camperdown. I’ll sit down, if 3^011 
please.” 

“ Oh, certainly, Aunt Penelope. ]\Ir. 
Camperdown ! ” 

“Yes; Mr. Camperdown. You know 
who he is. lie has been to me because 
1 am your nearest relation. So I am, and 
therefore I have come. I don’t like it, I 
can tell 3'ou.” 

“ As for that. Aunt Penelope, you’ve 
done it to please yourself,” said Lizzie in 
a tone of insolence with which Lady Lin- 
lithgow had been familiar in former da3^s. 

“No, I haven’t. Miss. I haven’t come 
for my own pleasure at all. I have come 
for the credit of the family, if any good 
can be done towards saving it. You’ve 
got your husband’s diamonds locked up 
sqmewhere, and you must give them 
back.” 

“My husband’s diamonds were my dia- 
monds,” said Lizzie stoutly, 

“They were family diamonds, Eu.stace 
diamonds, heirlooms — old property belong- 
ing to the Eustaces, just like their estates. 
Sir Elorian didn’t give ’em away, and 
couldn’t, and wouldn’t if he could. Such 
things ain’t given away in that fashion. 
It’s all nonsense, and 3’^ou must give them 
up.” 

“ Who sa3’s so? ” 

“I say so.” 

“ That’s nothing. Aunt Penelope.” 

“Nothing, is it? You’ll see. Mr. 
Camperdown says so. All the world will 
say so. If you don’t take care, you’ll 
find yourself brought into a court of law, 
my dear, and a jury will say so. That’s 
what it will come to. What good will 
they do you? You can’t sell them; and, 
as a widow, you can’t wear ’em. If you 
marry again, you wouldn’t disgrace your 
husband by going about showing off the 
Eustace diamonds. ' But you don’t know 
anything about ‘ proper feelings.’ ” 

“ I know every bit as m leh as you do, 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


33 


Aunt Penelope, and I don’t want you to 
teach me.” 

“ Will you give up the jewels to iMr. 
Camperdown ? ” 

“ No, I won’t.” 

“ Or to the jewellers? ” 

“ No, I won’t. I mean to — keep them 
— for — my child. ’ ’ Then there came forth 
a sob and a tear, and Lizzie’s handker- 
chief was held to her e3’^es. 

“ Your child ! AYouldn’t they be kept 
properly for him, and for the family, if 
the jewellers had them? I don’t believe 
3’ou care about your child.” 

“Aunt Penelope, you had better take 
care.” 

“ I shall say just what I think, Lizzie. 
You can’t frighten me. The fact is, jmu 
are disgracing the family you have mar- 
ried into, and as j’ou are my niece ” 

“ I’m not disgracing anybody. You 
are disgracing everybody.” 

“ As you are my niece, I have under- 
taken to come to yon and to tell you that 
if 3’ou don’t give ’em up within a week 
from this time they’ll proceed against 3"ou 
for — stealing ’em.” Lady Linlithgow, as 
she uttered this terrible threat, bobbed 
her head at her niece in a manner calcu- 
lated to add very much to the force of her 
words. The words, and tone, and gesture 
combined were, in truth, awful. 

“I didn’t steal them. My husband 
gave them to me with his own hands.” 

“ You wouldn’t answer Mr. Camper- 
down’s letters, j’ou know. That alone 
will condemn j'ou. After that there isn’t 
a word to be said about it — not a word. 
Mr. Camperdown is the family lawj'er, 
and when he writes to 5mu letter after let- 
ter you take no more notice of him than a — 
dog.” The old woman was certainly very 
powerful. The way in which she pro- 
nounced that last word did make Lady 
Eustace ashamed of herself. “ Why 
didn’t you answer his letters, unless you 
knew you were in the wrong? Of course 
you knew you were in the wrong.” 

“ No, I didn’t. A woman isn’t obliged 
to answer everything that is written to 
her.” 

“ Very well ! You just say that before 
the judge ! for jmu’ll have to go before a 
judge. 1 tell yon, Lizzie Greystock, or 
Eustace, or whatever your name is, it’s 
do^^mright picking and stealing. I sup- 
pose you -want to sell them.” 

3 


“I won’t stand this. Aunt Penelope,” 
said Lizzie, rising from her seat. 

“ You must stand it, and you’ll have 
to stand worse than that. You don’t sup- 
pose Mr. Camperdown got me to come 
here for nothing. If you don’t want to bo 
made out to be a thief before all the 
world ” 

“I won’t stand it,” shrieked Lizzie. 
“ You have no business to come here and 
say such things to me. It’s my house.” 

“ I shall say just what I please.” 

“ Miss Macnulty, come in.” And Liz- 
zie threw open the door, hardly knowing 
how the very weak ally whom she now in- 
voked could help her, but driven by the 
stress of the combat to seek assistance 
scftnewhere. ^Miss Macnulty, who was 
seated near the door, and who had neces- 
sarily heard every word of the conversa- 
tion, had no alternative but to appear. 
Of all human beings Lady Linlithgow 
was to her the most terrible, and yet, after 
a fashion, she loved the old woman^ ^liss 
Macnulty was humble, cowardly, and sul> 
servient ; but she was not a fool, and she 
understood the difference between truth 
and falsehood. She had endured fearful 
things from Lady Linlithgow; but she 
knew that there might be more of sound 
protection in Lady Linlithgow’s real 
wrath than in Lizzie’s pretended affec- 
tion. 

“ So you are there, are you? ” said the 
countess. 

“ Yes, I am here. Lady Linlithgow.” 

“ Listening, 1 suppose. Well, so 
much the better. You know well enough , 
and you can tell her. You ain’t a fool, 
though I suppose you’ll be afraid to open 
3"Our mouth.” 

“ Julia,” said Lady Eustace, “ will j’ou 
have the kindness to see that my aunt is 
shown to her carriage ? I cannot stand 
her violence, and I will go up-stairs.” So 
saying she made her way very gracefully 
into the back drawing-room, whence she 
could escape to her bedroom. 

But her aunt fired a last shot at her. 
“ Unless you do as you’re bid, Lizzie, 
you’ll find yourself in prison as sure as 
eggs.” Then, when her niece was be- 
yond hearing, she turned to Miss IMacnul- 
ty. “I suppose you’ve heard about these 
diamonds, Macnulty?” 

“ I know she’s got them. Lady Linlith- 
gow.” 


34 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ She has no more right to them than 
you have. I suppose you’re afraid to tell 
her so, lest she should turn you out ; but 
it’s well she should know it. I’ve done 
my duty. Never mind about the servant. 
I’ll find my way out of the house.” Nev- 
ertheless the bell was rung, and the count- 
ess was shown to her carriage with proper 
consideration. 

The two ladies went to the opera, and 
it was not till after their return, and just 
as they were going to bed, that anything 
further was said about either the neck- 
lace or the visit. Miss Macnulty would 
not begin the subject, and Lizzie pur- 
posely postponed it. But not for a mo- 
ment had it been off Lady Eustace’s 
mind. She did not care much for mu- 
sic, though she professed to do so, and 
thought that she did. x But on this night, 
had she at other times been a slave to 
Saint Cecilia, she would have been free 
from that thraldom. The old woman’s 
threats had gone into her very heart’s 
blood. Theft, and prison, and juries, and 
judges had been thrown at her head so 
violently that she was almost stunned. 
Could it really be the case that they would 
prosecute her for stealing ? She was Lady 
Eustace, and who but Lady Eustace 
should have these diamonds or be allowed 
to wear them? Nobody could say that 
Sir Florian had not given them to her. It 
could not, surely, be brought against her 
as an actual crime that she had not an- 
swered Mr. Camperdown’s letters? And 
yet she was not sure. Her ideas about 
law and judicial proceedings were very 
vague. Of what was wrong and what 
was right she had a distinct notion. She 
knew well enough that she was endeavor- 
ing to steal the Eustace diamonds ; but she 
did not in the least know what power 
there might be in the law to prevent, or 
to punish her for the intended theft. She 
knew well that the thing was not really 
her own ; but there were, as she thought, 
so many points in her favor, that she felt 
it to be a cruelty that any one should 
grudge her the plunder. VVas not she the 
only Lady Eustace living? As to these 
threats from IMr. Camperdown and Lady 
Linlithgow, she felt certain they would be 
used against her whether they were true 
or false. She would break her heart 
should she abandon her prey and after- 
ward find that Mr. Camperdown would 
have been wholly powerless against her 


had she held on to it. But then who 
would tell her the truth ? She was sharp 
enough to understand, or at any rate sus- 
picious enough to believe, that Mr. Mopus 
would be actuated by no other desire in 
the matter than that of running up a bill 
against her. “My dear,” she said to 
Miss Macnulty, as they went up-stairs 
after the opera, “ come into my room a 
moment. You heard all that my aunt 
said.” 

“ I could not help hearing. You told 
me to stay there, and the door was ajar.” 

“ I wanted you to hear. Of course 
what she said was the greatest nonsense 
in the world.” 

“ I don’t know.’ 

“ When she talked about my being 
taken to prison for not answering a law- 
yer’s letter, that must be nonsense.” 

“ I suppose that was.” 

“ And then she is such a ferocious old 
termagant — such an old vulturess. Now 
isn’t she a ferocious old termagant?” 
Lizzie paused for an answer, desirous that 
her companion should join her in her en- 
mity against her aunt ; but Miss Macnulty 
was unwilling to say anything against one 
who had been her protectress, and might, 
perhaps, be her protectress again. “ You 
don’t mean to say you don’t hate her?” 
said Lizzie. “ If you didn’t hate her after 
all she has done to you, I should despise 
you. Don’t you hate her ? ” 

“ I think she’s a very upsetting old wo- 
man,” said Miss Macnulty. 

“ Oh, you poor creature! Is that all 
you dare say about her? ” - 

“ I’m obliged to be a poor creature,” 
said Miss Macnulty, with a red spot on 
each of her cheeks. 

Lady Eustace understood this, and re- 
lented. “ But you needn’t be afraid,” 
she said, “ to tell me what you think.” 

“ About the diamonds, you mean.” 

“ Yes, about the diamonds.” 

“ You have enough without them. I’d 
give ’em up for peace and quiet.” That 
was Miss Macnulty’s advice. 

“ No, I haven’t enough, or nearly 
enough. I’ve had to buy ever so many 
things since my husband died. They’ve 
done all they could to be hard to me. 
They made me pay for the very furniture 
at Portray.” Tliis wasn’t true; but it 
was true that Lizzie had endeavored to 
palm off on the Eustace estate bills for 
new things which she had ordered for her 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 35 


own country-house. “ I haven’t near 
enough. I am in debt already. People 
talked as though I were the richest woman 
in the world ; but when it comes to be 
spent, I ain’t rich. Why should I give 
them up if they’re my own? ” 

“ Not if they’re your own.” 

“ If I give you a present and then die, 
people can’t come and take it away after- 
wards because I didn’t put it into my 
will. There’d be no making presents like 
that at all.” This Lizzie said with an 
evident conviction in the strength of her 
argument. 

“But this necklace is so very valua- 
ble.” 

“ That can’t make a difference. If a 
thing is a man’s own he can give it away ; 
— not a house, or a farm, or a wood, or any- 
thing like that, but a thing that he can 


carry about witli him — of course he can 
give it away.” 

“ But perhaps Sir Florian didn’t mean 
to give it for always,” suggested Miss 
Macnulty. 

“ But perhaps he did. He told me that 
they were mine, and I shall keep them. 
So that’s the end of it. You can go to bed 
now.” And ^Miss Macnulty went to bed. 

Lizzie, as she sat thinking of it, owned 
to herself that no help was to be expected 
in that quarter. She was not angry with 
Miss Macnulty, who was, almost of neces- 
sity, a poor creature. But she was con- 
vinced more strongly than ever that some 
friend was necessary to her who should 
not be a poor creature. Lord Fawn, 
though a peer, was a poor creature. 
Frank Greystock she believed to be as 
strong as a house. 


CHAPTER YII. 

MR. BURKe’s speeches. 

L ucy morris had been told by 

Lady Fawn that — in point of fact, 
that, being a governess, she ought to 
give over falling in love with Frank Grey- 
stock, and she had not liked it. Lady 
Fawn no doubt had used words less ab- 
rupt — had probably used but few words, 
and had expressed her meaning chiefly by 
little winks, and shakings of her head, 
and small gestures of her hands, and had 
ended by a kiss — in all of which she had 
intended to mingle mercy with justice, and 
had, in truth, been full of love. Never- 
theless, Lucy had not liked it. No girl 
likes to be warned against falling in love, 
whether the warning be needed or not 
needed. In this case Lucy knew very 
well that the caution was too late. It 
might be all very well for Lady Fawn to 
decide that her governess should not re- 
ceive visits from a lover in her house ; and 
then the governess might decide whether, 
in those circumstances, she would remain 
or go away ; but Lady Fawn could have 
no right to tell her governess not to be in 
love. All this Lucy said to herself over 
and over again, and yet she knew that 
Lady Fawn had treated her well. The 
old woman had kissed her, and purred 
over her, and praised her, and had really 
loved her. As a matter of course, Lucy 
was not entitled to have a lover. Lucy 
knew that well enough. As she walked 
alone among the shrubs she made argu- 
ments in defence of Lady Fawn as against 
herself. And yet at every other minute 
she would blaze up into a grand wrath, 
and picture to herself a scene in which she 
would tell Lady Fawn boldly that as her 
lover had been banished from Fawn Court, 
she, Lucy, would remain there no longer. 
There were but two objections to this 
course. The first was that Frank Grey- 
stock was not her lover ; and the second, 
that on leaving Fawn Court she would not 
know whither to betake herself. It was 
understood by everybody that she was 
never to leave Fawn Court till an unex- 
ceptionable home should be found for her, 
either with the Ilittaways or elsewhere. 


Lady Fawn would no more allow her to go 
away, depending for her future on the 
mere chance of some promiscuous engage- 
ment, than she would have turned one of 
her own daughters out of the house in the 
same forlorn condition. Lady Fawn was 
a tower of strength to Lucy. But then a 
tower of strength may at any moment be- 
come a dungeon. 

Frank Greystock was not her lover. 
Ah, there was the worst of it all ! She 
had given her heart and had got nothing 
in return. She conned it all over in her 
own mind, striving to ascertain whether 
there was any real cause for shame to her in 
her conduct. Had she been unmaidenly? 
Had she been too forward with her heart ? 
Had it been extracted from her, as women's 
hearts are extracted, by eflbrts on the 
man’s part ; or had she simply chucked it 
away from her to the first comer ? Then 
she remembered certain scenes at the 
deanery, words that had been spoken, 
looks that had been turned upon her, a 
pressure of the hand late at night, a little 
whisper, a ribbon that had been begged, 
a flower that had been given ; and once, 

once ; then there came a burning 

blush upon her cheek that there should 
have been so much, and yet so Jittle that 
was of avail. She had no right to say to 
any one that the man was her lover. She 
had no right to assure herself that he was 
her lover. But she knew that some wrong 
was done her in that he was not her lover. 

Of the importance of her own self as a 
living thing with a heart to suffer and a 
soul to endure, she thought enough. She 
believed in herself, thinking of herself, 
that should it ever be her lot to be a man’s 
wife, she would be to him a true, loving 
friend and companion, living in his joys, 
and fighting, if it were necessary, down to 
the stumps of her nails in his interests. 
But of wliat she had to give over and 
above her heart and intellect she never 
thought at all. Of personal beauty she 
had very little appreciation even in otbors. 
The form and face of Lady Eustace, which 
indeed were very lovely, were distasteful 
to her; whereas she delighted to look 
upon the broad, plain, colorless counte- 
nance of Lydia Fa-wn, who was endeared 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


37 


to her by frank good humor and an unself- 
ish disposition. In regard to men, she 
had never asked herself the question 
whetlier this man was handsome or that 
man ugly. Of Frank Greystock she knew 
that his face was full of quick intellect ; 
and of Lord Fawn she knew that he bore 
no outward index of mind. One man she 
not only loved, but could not help loving. 
The other man, as regarded that sort of 
sympathy which marriage should recog- 
nize, must always have been worlds 
asunder from her. She knew that men de- 
mand that women shall possess beauty, 
and she certainly had never thought of 
herself as beautiful ; but it did not occur 
to her that on that account she was 
doomed to fail. She was too strong- 
hearted for any such fear. She did not 
think much of these things, but felt her- 
self to be so far endowed as to be fit to be 
the wife of such a man as Frank Grey- 
stock. She was a proud, stout, self-jjon- 
fident, but still modest little woman, too 
fond of truth to tell lies of herself even to 
herself. She was possessed of a great 
power of s3Tnpathy, genial, very social, 
greatly given to the mirth of conversation 
— though in talking she would listen much 
and say but little. She was keenly alive 
to humor, and had at her command a 
great fund of laughter, which would illu- 
mine her whole face without producing a 
sound from her mouth. She knew her- 
self to be too good to be a governess for 
life; and j^et how could it be othenvise 
with her ? 

Lady Linlithgow’s visit to her niece had 
been made on a Thursday, and on that 
same evening Frank Grey^stock had asked 
his question in the House of Commoms — 
or rather had made his speech about the 
Sawab of IMy’gawb. We all know the 
meaning of such speeches. Had not 
Frank belonged to the party that was out, 
and had not the resistance to the Sawab’s 
claim come from the party that was in, 
Frank would not probably have cared 
much about the prince. We may be sure 
that he would not have troubled himself 
to read a line of that very dull and long 
pamphlet of which he had to make him- 
self master before he could venture to stir 
in the matter, had not the road of Opposi- 
tion been open to him in that direction. 
But what exertion will not a politician 
make with the view of getting the point 
of hLs lance within the joints of his ene- 
mies’ harness? Frank made his speech. 


and made it very well. It was just the 
case for a lawyer, admitting that kind of 
advocacy which it is a lawyer’s business 
to practise. The Indian minister of the 
day. Lord Fawn’s chief, had determined, 
after much anxious consideration, that it 
was his duty to resist the claim ; and then, 
for resisting it, he was attacked. Had he 
yielded to the claim, the attack would 
have been as venomous, and very probable 
would have come from the same quarter. 
No blame by such an assertion is cast 
upon the young Conservative aspirant for 
party honors. It is thus the war is 
waged. Frank Greystock took up the 
Sawab’s case, and would have drawn min- 
gled tears and indignation from his hear- 
ers, had not his hearers all known the 
conditions of the contest. On neither side 
did the hearers care much for the Sawab’s 
claims, but they felt that Grey^stock was 
making good his own claims to some fu- 
ture reward from his party. He was very 
hard upon the minister, and he was hard 
also upon Lord Fawn, stating that the 
cruelty of Government ascendancy had 
never been put forward as a doctrine in 
])Iainer terms than those which had been 
used in “ another place ” in reference to 
the wrongs of this poor ill-used native 
chieftain. This was very grievous to Lord 
Fawn, who had personally desired to fii- 
vor the ill-used chieftain ; and harder 
again because he and Grey^stock were in- 
timate with each other. He felt the thing 
keenly, and was full of his grievance 
when, in accordance with his custom, he 
came down to Fawn Court on the Satur- 
day evening. 

The Fawn family, which consisted en- 
tirely of women, dined early. On Satur- 
days, when his lordship would come down, 
a dinner was prepared for him alone. On 
Sundays they all dined together at three 
o’clock. On Sunday evening Lord Fawn 
would return to town to prepare himself 
for his Monday’s work. Perhaps, also, 
he disliked the sermon which Lady Fawn 
always read to the assembled household at 
nipe o’clock on Sunday evening. On this 
Saturday he came out into the grounds 
after dinner, where the oldest unmarried 
daughter, the present Miss Fawn, was 
walking with Lucy Morris. It was almost 
a summer evening ; so much so, that some 
of the party had been sitting on the gar- 
den benches, and four of the girls were 
still playing croquet on the lawn, though 
there was hardly light enough to see the 


88 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


balls. Miss Fawn had already told Lucy 
that her brother was very angry with Mr. 
Greystock. Now, Lucy’s sympathies 
were all with Frank and the Sawab. She 
had endeavored, indeed, and had partially 
succeeded, in perverting the Under-Secre- 
tary. Nor did she now intend to change 
her opinions, although all the Fawn girls, 
and Lady Fawn, were against her. When 
a brother or a son is an Under-Secretary 
of State, sisters and mothers will constant- 
ly be on the side of the Government, so 
far as that Under-Secretary’s ofl&ce is con- 
cerned. 

“ Upon my word, Frederic,” said Au- 
gusta Fawn, “ I do think Mr. Greystock 
was too bad.” 

“ There’s nothing these fellows won’t 
say or do,” exclaimed Lord Fawn. “I 
can’t understand it myself. When I’ve 
been in opposition, I never did that kind 
of thing.” 

“ I wonder whether it was because he 
is angry with mamma,” said Miss Fawn. 
Everybody who knew the Fawns knew 
that Augusta Fawn was not clever, and 
that she would occasionally say the very 
thing that ought not to be said. 

“ Oh dear, no,” said the Under-Secre- 
tary, who could not endure the idea that 
the weak women-mind of his family should 
have, in any way, an influence on the au- 
gust doings of Parliament. 

“ You know mamma did ” 

“ Nothing of that kind at all,” said his 
lordship, putting down his sister with 
great authority. “ Mr. Greystock is sim- 
ply not an honest politician. That is 
about the whole of it. He chose to attack 
me because there was an opportunity. 
There isn’t a man in either House who 
cares for such things, personally, less than 
I do.” Had his lordship said “ more than 
he did,” he might perhaps have been 
correct. “ But I can’t bear the feeling. 
The fact is, a lawyer never understands 
what is and what is not fair fighting.” 

Lucy felt her face tingling with heat, 
and was preparing to say a word in de- 
fence of that special lawyer, when Lady 
Fawn’s voice was heard from the drawing- 
room window. “ Come in, girls. It's 
nine o’clock.” In that house Lady Fawn 
reigned supreme, and no one ever doubted 
for a moment as to her obedience. The 
clicking of the balls ceased, and those who 
were walking immediately turned their 
faces to the drawing-room window. But 
Lord Fawn, who was not one of the girls, 


1 took another turn by himself, thinking ol 
I the wrongs he had endured. 

“Frederic is so angry about jMr. Grey- 
stock,” said Augusta, as soon as they were 
seated. 

“ I do feel that it was provoking,” said 
the second sister. 

“And considering that. Mr. Greystock 
has so often been here, I don’t think it 
was kind,” said the third. 

Lydia did not speak, but could not re- 
frain from glancing her eyes at Lucy’s 
face. “ I believe everything is consid- 
ered fair in Parliament,” said Lady 
Fawn. 

Then Lord Fawn, who had heard the 
last words, entered through the window. 
“ I don’t know about that, mother,” said 
he. “ Gentlemanlike conduct is the same 
everywhere. There are things that may 
be said and there are things which may not. 
Mr. Greystock has altogether gone be- 
yond the usual limits, and I shall take 
care that he knows my opinion.” 

“ You are not going to quarrel with the 
man? ” asked the mother. 

“lam not going to fight him, if you 
mean that ; but I shall let him know that 
I think that he has transgressed.” This 
his lordship said with that haughty supe- 
riority which a man may generally dis- 
play with safety among the women of his 
own family. 

Lucy had borne a great deal, knowing 
well that it was better that she should 
bear such injury in silence ; but there was 
a point beyond which she could not en- 
dure it. It was intolerable to her that 
Mr. Greystock’s character as a gentleman 
should be impugned before all the ladies 
of the family, every one of whom did, in 
fact, know her liking for the man. And 
then it seemed to her that she could rush 
into the battle, giving a side blow at his 
lordship on behalf of his absent antago- 
nist, but appearing to fight for the Sawab. 
There had been a time when the poor 
Sawab was in favor at Fawn Court. “ I 
think Mr. Greystock was right to say all 
he could for the prince. If he took up 
the cause, he was bound to make the best 
of it.” She spoke with energy and with 
a heightened color ; and Lady Fawn, hear- 
ing her, shook her head at her. 

“ Did you read Mr. Greystock’s speech. 
Miss Morris ? ” asked Lord Fawn. 

“ Every word of it, in the ‘ Times.’ ” 

“ And you understood his allusion to 
what I had been called upon to say in the 


THE EUSTACE DmiONDS. 


89 


Hous3 of Lords on behalf of the Govern- 
ment?” 

“ 1 suppose I did. It did not seem to 
be difficult to understand.” 

“ I do think Hr. Greystock should have 
abstained from attacking Frederic,” said 
Augusta. 

“ It was not — not quite the thing that 
we are accustomed to,” said Lord Fawn. 

“ Of course I don’t know about that,” 
said Lucy. “ I think the prince is being 
used very ill, that he is being deprived 
of his own property, that he is kept out 
of his rights, just because he is weak, and 
I am very glad that there is some one to 
speak up for him.” 

“ My dear Lucy,” said Lady Fawn, 
“ if you discuss politics with Lord Fawn, 
you’ll get the worst of it.” 

“ I don’t at all object to Miss Morris’s 
views about the Sawab,” said the Under- 
secretary, generously. “ There is a great 
deal to be said on both sides, I know of 
old that Miss Morris is a great friend of 
the Sawab.” 

“ You used to be his friend, too,” said 
Lucy. 

“I felt for him, and do feel for him. 
All that is very well. I ask no one to 
agree with me on the question itself. I 
only say that Mr. Greystock’s mode of 
treating it was unbecoming.” 

“I think it was the very best speech I 
ever read in my life,” said Lucy, with 
headlong energy and heightened color. 

“Then, Miss Morris, you and I have 
very different opinions about speeches,” 
said Lord Fawn, with severity. “You 
have, probably, never read Burke’s 
speeches.” 

“ And I don’t want to read them,” said 
Lucy. 

“ That is another question,” said Lord 
Fawn ; and his tone and manner were 
very severe indeed. 

“We are talking about speeches in 
Parliament,” said Lucy. Poor Lucy! 
She knew quite as well as did Lord Favm 
that Burke had been a House of Commons 
orator ; but in her impatience, and from 
absence of the habit of argument, she 
omitted to explain that she was talking 
ibout the speeches of the day. 

Lord Fawn held up his hands, and put 
his head a little on one side. “ My dear 
Lucy,” said Lady Fawn, “you are show- 
ing your ignorance. Where do you sup- 
pose that Mr. Burke’s speeches were 
made?” 


“ Of course I know they were made in 
Parliament,” said Lucy, almost in tears. 

“ If Miss Morris means that ‘Burke’s 
I greatest efforts were not made in Parlia 
ment, that his speech to the electors of 
Bristol, for instance, and his opening ad- 
dress on the trial of AYarren Hastings, 
were, upon the whole, superior to ” 

“ I didn’t mean anything at all,” said 
Lucy. 

“ Lord Fawn is trying to help you, my 
dear,” said Lady Fawn. 

“ I don’t want to be helped,” said Lucy. 
“ I only mean that I thought Mr. Grey- 
stock’s speech as good as it could possibly 
be. There wasn’t a word in it that didn’t 
seem to me to be just what it ought to be. 
I do think that they are ill-treating that 
poor Indian prince, and I am very glad 
that somebody has had the courage to get 
up and say so.” 

No doubt it would have been better 
that Lucy should have held her tongue. 
Had she simply been upholding against an 
opponent a political speaker whose speech 
she had read with pleasure, she might 
have held her own in the argument against 
the whole Fawn family. She was a fa- 
vorite with them all, and even the Under- 
secretary would not have been hard upon 
her. But there had been more than this 
for poor Lucy to do. Her heart was so 
truly concerned in the matter, that she 
could not refrain herself from resenting an 
attack on the man she loved. She hal al- 
lowed herself to be carried into superla- 
tives, and had almost been uncourteous 
to Lord Fawn. “My dear,” said Lady 
Fawn, “ we won’t say anything more 
upon the subject.” Lord Fawn took up 
a book. Lady Fawn busied herself in her 
knitting. Lydia assumed a look of un- 
happiness, as though something very sad 
had occurred. Augusta addressed a ques- 
tion to her brother in a tone which plainly 
indicated a feeling on her part that her 
brother had been ill-used and was en- 
titled to especial consideration. Lucy sat 
silent and still, and then left the room 
with a hurried step. Lydia at once rose 
to follow her, but was stopped by her 
mother. “ You had better leave her 
alone just at present, my dear,” said 
Lady Fawn. 

“I did not know that MLss Morris was 
so particularly interested in Mr. Grey- 
stock,” said Lord Fawn. 

“She has known him since she was a 
child,” said his mother. 


40 


THE EUSTACE DIAI^IONDS. 


About an hour afterwards Lady Fawn 
went up stairs and found Lucy sitting all 
alone in the still so-called school-room. 
She had no candle, and had made no pre- 
tence to do anything since she had left the 
room down stairs. In the interval family 
prayers had been read, and Lucy’s ab- 
sence was unusual and contrary to rule. 
“ Lucy, my dear, why are you sitting 
here? ” said Lady Fawn. 

“ Because I am unhappy.” 

“ What makes you unhappy, Lucy ? ” 

“ 1 don’t know. I would rather you 
didn’t ask me. I suppose I behaved badly 
down stairs.” 

“My son would forgive you in a mo- 
ment if you asked him.” 

“No; certainly not. I can beg your 
pardon. Lady Fawn, but not his. Of 
course I had no right to talk about 
speeches, and politics, and this prince in 
your drawing-room.” 

“ Lucy, 3"ou astonish me.” 

“ But it is so. Dear Lady Fawn, don’t 
look like that. I know how good you are 
to me. I know you let me do things 
which other governesses mayn’t do ; and 
say things ; but still I am a governess, 
and I know I misbehaved — to you.” 
Then Lucy burst into tears. 

Lady Fawn, in whose bosom there was 
no stony corner or morsel of hard iron, 
was softened at once. “ My dear, you 
are more like another daughter to me 
than anything else.” 

“ Dear Lady Fawn ! ” 

“ But it makes me unhappy when I see 
your mind engaged about Mr. Greystock. 
There is the truth, Lucy. You should 
not think of JNIr. Greystock. Mr. Grey- 
stock is a man who has his way to make 
in the world, and could not marry you, 
even if, under other circumstances, he 
would wish to do so. You know how 
frank I am with you, giving you credit 
for honest, sound good sense. To me and 
to my girls, who know you as a lady, you 
are as dear a friend as though you were — 
anything you may please fto think. Lucy 
Morris is to us our own dear, dear little 
friend Lucy. But INIr. Greystock, who is 
a member of Parliament, could not marry 
a governess.” 

“ But I love him so dearly,” said Lucy, 
getting up from her chair, “ that his 
slightest word is to me more than all the 
words of all the world beside. It is no 
use. Lady Fawn. I do love him, and I 
don’t mean to try to give it up.” Lady 


Fawn stood silent for a moment, and then 
suggested that it would be better for them 
both to go to bed. During that minute 
she had been unable to decide what she 
had better say or do in the present emer- 
gency. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE CONQUERING HERO COMES. 

The reader will perhaps remember that 
when Lizzie Eustace was told that her 
aunt was down stairs Frank Greystock was 
with her, and that he promised to return 
on the following day to hear the result of 
the interview. Had Lady Linlithgow not 
come at that very moment Frank would 
probably have asked his rich cousin to be 
his wife. She had told him that she was 
solitary and unhappy ; and after that 
what else could he have done but ask hei 
to be his wife? The old countess, how 
ever, arrived and interrupted him. He 
went away abruptly, promising to come 
on the morrow ; but on the morrow he 
never came. It was a Friday, and Lizzie 
remained at home for him the whole morn- 
ing. When four o’clock was passed she 
knew that he would be at the House. But 
still she did not stir. And she contrived 
that Miss Macnulty should be absent the 
entire day. Miss Macnulty was even 
made to go to the play by herself in the 
evening. But her absence was of no 
service. Frank Greystock came not ; and 
at eleven at night Lizzie swore to herself 
that should he ever come again, he should 
come in vain. Neverthelass, through the 
whole of Saturday she expected him with 
more or less of confidence, and on the Sun- 
day morning she was still well inclined 
toward him. It might be that he would 
come on that day. She could understand 
that a man with his hands so full of busi- 
ness as were those of her cousin Frank 
should find himself unable to keep an ap- 
pointment. Nor would there be fair 
ground for permanent anger with such a 
one, even should he forget an appoint- 
ment. But surely he would come on the 
Sunday ! She had been quite sure that 
the offer was about to be made when that 
odious old harridan had come in and dis- 
turbed everything. Indeed, the offer had 
been all but made. She had felt the pre- 
monitory flutter, had asked herself the 
important question, and had answered it. 
She had told herself that the thing would 
do. Frank was not the exact hero that 


THE El /STAGE DIAMONDS. 


41 


her fancy had painted, but he was suffi- 
ciently heroic. Everybody said that he 
vrould work his way up to the top of the 
tree, and become a rich man. At any 
rate she had resolved ; and then Lady 
Linlithgow had come in ! Surely he 
would come on the Sunday. 

He did not come on the Sunday, but 
Lord Fawn did come. Immediately after 
morning church Lord Fawn declared his 
intention of returning at once from Fawn 
Court to town. He was very silent at 
breakfast, and his sisters surmised that he 
was still angry with poor Lucy. Lucy, 
too, was unlike herself, was silent, sad, 
and oppressed. Lady Fawn was serious, 
and almost solemn ; so that there was lit- 
tle even of holy mirth at Fawn Court on 
that Sunday morning. The whole family, 
however, went to church, and immediately 
on their return Lord Fawn expressed his 
intention of returning to town. All the 
sisters felt that an injury had been done 
to them by Lucy. It was only on Sun- 
days that their dinner-table was graced 
by the male member of the family, and 
now he was driven away. “ I am sorry 
that you are going to desert us, Frederic,” 
said Lady Fawn. Lord Fawn muttered 
something as to absolute necessity, and 
went. The afternoon was very dreary at 
Fawn Court. Nothing was said on the 
subject ; but there was still the feeling 
th£\t Lucy had offended. At four o’clock 
on that Sunday afternoon Lord Fawn was 
closeted with Lady Eustace. 

The “closeting” consisted simply in 
the fact that Miss Macnulty was not 
present. Lizzie fully appreciated the 
pleasure, and utility, and general con- 
venience of having a companion, but she 
had no scruple whatever in obtaining ab- 
solute freedom for herself when she de- 
sired it. “ My dear,” she would say, 
“ the best friends in the world shouldn’t 
alwaj's be together ; should they ? 
Wouldn’t you like to go to the Horticul- 
tural ? ” Then Miss Macnulty would go 
to the Horticultural, or else up into her 
own bedroom. When Lizzie was begin- 
ning to wax wrathful again because Frank 
Greys toe k did not come. Lord Fawn made 
his appearance. “ How kind this is,” 
said Lizzie. “ I thought you were always 
at Richmond on Sundays.” 

“ I have just come up from my moth- 
er’s,” said Lord Fawn, twiddling his hat. 
Then Lizzie, with a pretty eagerness, 
asked after Lady Fawn and the girls, and 


her dear little friend Lucy Morris. Liz- 
zie could be very prettily eager when she 
pleased. She leaned forward her face as 
she asked her questions, and threw back 
her loose lustrous lock of hair, with her 
long lithe fingers covered with diamonds — 
the diamonds, these, which Sir Florian 
had really given her, or which she had 
procured from Mr. Benjamin in the clever 
manner described in the opening chapter. 
“ They are all quite well, thank you,” said 
Lord Fawn. “ I believe Miss Monas is 
quite well, thoug hshe was a little out of 
sorts last night.” 

“She is not ill, I hojDe,” said Liz- 
zie, bringing the lustrous lock forward 
again. 

“In her temper, I mean,” said Lord 
Fawn. 

“ Indeed ! I hope Miss Lucy is not for- 
getting herself. That would be very sad, 
after the great kindness she has received.” 
Lord Fawn said that it would be very sad, 
and then put his hat down upon the floor. 
It came upon Lizzie at that moment, as by 
a flash of lightning — by an electric mes- 
sage delivered to her intellect by that 
movement of the hat — that she might be 
sure of Lord Fawn if she chose to take 
him. On Friday she might have been 
sure of Frank, only that Lady Linlithgow 
came in the way. But now she did not 
feel at all sure of Frank. Lord Fawn was 
at any rate a peer. She had heard that 
he was a poor peer — but a peer, she 
thought, can’t be altogether poor. And 
though he was a stupid owl — she did not 
hesitate to acknowledge to herself that he 
was as stupid as an owl — he had a posi- 
tion. He was one of the Government, and 
his wife would, no doubt, be able to go 
anywhere. It was becoming essential to 
her that she should marry. Even though 
her husband should give up the diamonds, 
she would not in such case incur the dis- 
grace of surrendering them herself. Sho 
would have kept them till she had ceased 
to be a Eustace. Frank had certainly 
meant it on that Thursday afternoon ; but 
surely he would have been in Mount street 
before this if he had not changed his 
mind. We all know that a bird in the 
hand is worth two in the bush. “ I have 
been at Fawn Court once or twice,” said 
Lizzie, with her sweetest grace, “ and I 
always think it a modehof real family hap- 
piness.” 

“ I hope you may be there very often,’ 
said Lord Fawn.” 


42 


THE EUSTACE DmiONDS. 


“ Ah, I have no right to intrude myself 
often on your mother, Lord Fawn.” 

There could hardly be a better opening 
than this for him had he chosen to accept 
it. But it was not thus that he had ar- 
ranged it — for he had made his arrange- 
ments. “ There would be no feeling of 
that kind, I am sure,” he said. And then 
he was silent. How was he to deploy 
himself on the ground before him so as to 
make the strategy which he had prepared 
answer the occasion of the day? “ Lady 
Eustace,” he said, “I don’t know what 
j'our views of life may be.” 

“ I have a child, you know, to bring 
up.” 

“Ah, yes; that gives a great interest, 
of course.” 

“ He will inherit a very large fortune. 
Lord Fawn ; too large, I fear, to be of 
service to a youth of one-and-twenty ; and 
I must endeavor to fit him for the posses- 
sion of it. That is, and always must be, 
the chief object of my existence.” Then 
she felt that she had said too much. He 
w'as just the man who would be fool 
enough to believe her. “ Not but what it 
is hard to do it. A mother can of course 
devote herself to her child ; but when a 
portion of the devotion must be given to 
. the preservation of material interests there 
is less of tenderness in it. Don’t you 
think so?” ' 

“No doubt,” said Lord Fawn; “no 
doubt.” But he had not followed her, 
and was still thinking of his ovrn strategy. 
“ It’s a comfort, of course, to know that 
one’s child is provided for.” 

“Oh, yes ; but they tell me the poor 
little dear will have forty thousand a year 
when he’s of age ; and when I look at him 
in his little bed, and press him in my 
arms, and think of all that money, I al- 
most wish that his father had been a poor 
plain gentleman.” Then the handker- 
chief was put to her eyes, and Lord Fawn 
had a moment in which to collect himself. 

“ Ah ! I myself am a poor man , for my 
rank I mean.” 

“ A man with your position. Lord 
Fawn, and your talents and genius for 
business, can never be poor.” 

“ ]\Iy father’s property was all Irish, 
you know.” 

“ Was it indeed? ” 

“ And he was an Irish peer till Lord 
^lelbourne gave him an English peerage.” 

“ An Irish peer, was he? ” Lizzie un- 
derstood nothing of this, but presumed 


that an Irish peer was a peer who had not 
sufficient money to live upon. Lord Fawn, 
however, was endeavoring to describe his 
own history in as few words as possible. 

“ He was then made Lord Fawn of 
Richmond, in the peerage of the United 
Kingdom. Fawn Court, you know, be- 
longed to my mother’s father before my 
mother’s marriage. The property in Ire- 
land is still mine, but there’s no place on 
it.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“ There was a house, but my father al 
lowed it to tumble down. It’s in Tippe- 
rary ; not at all a desirable country to live 
in.” 

“Oh dear, no ! Don’t they murder the 
people? ” 

“ It’s about five thousand, a year, and 
out of that my mother has half for her 
life.” 

“ What an excellent family arrange- 
ment,” said Lizzie. There was so long a 
pause made between each statement that 
she was forced to make some reply. 

“You see, for a peer, the fortune is 
very small indeed.” 

“But then you have a salary, don’t 
you?” 

“At present I have; but no one can 
tell how long that may last.” 

“I’m sure Jt’s for everybody’s good 
that it should go on for ever so many 
years,” said Lizzie. 

“ Thank you,” said Lord Fawn. “I’m 
afraid, however, there are a great many 
people who don’t think so. Your cousin 
Greystock would do anything on earth to 
turn us out.” 

“ Luckily my cousin Frank has not 
much power,” said Lizzie. And in say- 
ing it she threw into her tone, and into 
her countenance, a certain amount of con- 
tempt for Frank as a man and as a politi- 
cian, which was pleasant to Lord Fawn. 

“ Now,” said he, “ I have told you 
everything about myself which I was 
bound, as a man of honor, to tell before 

I — I — I . In short, you know what I 

mean.” 

“ Oh, Lord Fawn ! ” 

“ I have told you everything. I owe 
no money, but I could not afibrd to marry 
a wife without an income. I admire you 
more than any woman I ever saw. I love 
you with all my heart.” He was now 
standing upright before her, with the 
fingers of his right hand touching his 
left breast, and there was something al- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


43 


most of dignity in his gesture and de- 
meanor. “It may be that you are deter- 
mined never to marry again. I can only 
say that if you will trust yourself to me — 
yourself and your child — I will do my 
duty truly by you both, and will make 
your happiness the chief object of my ex- 
istence.” "W hen she had listened to him 
thus far, of course she must accept him ; 
but he was by no means aware of that. 
She sat silent, with her hands folded on 
her breast, looking down upon the ground ; 
but he did not as yet attempt to seat him- 
self by her. “ Lady Eustace,” he con- 
tinued, “ may I venture to entertain a 
hope?” 

“May I not have an hour to think of 
it? ” said Lizzie, just venturing to turn a 
glance of her eye upon his face. 

“Oh, certainly. I will call again 
whenever you may bid me.” 

Now she was silent for two or three 
minutes, during which he still stood over 
her. But he had dropped his hand from 
his breast, and had stooped, and picked 
up his hat ready for his departure. Was 
he to come again on Monday, or Tuesday, 
or Wednesday? Let her tell him that 
and he would go. He doubtless reflected 
that Wednesday would suit him best, be- 
cause there would be no House. But Liz- 
zie was too magnanimous for this. ‘ ‘ Lord 
Fawn,” she said, rising, “ you have paid 
me the greatest compliment that a man can 
pay a woman. Coming from you it is 
doubly precious ; first, because of your 
character ; and secondly ” 

“ Why secondly? ” 

“Secondly, because I can love you.” 
This was said in her lowest whisper, and 
then she moved toward him gently, and 
almost laid her head upon his breast. Of 
course he put his arm round her waist, 
but it was first necessary that he should 
once more disembarrass himself of his hat, 
and then her head was upon his breast. 
“ Dearest Lizzie,” he said. 

“ Dearest Frederic,” she mumured. 

“ I shall write to my mother to-night,” 
he said. 

“ Do, do, dear Frederic.” 

“And she will come to you at once, I 
am sure.” 

“ I will receive her and love her as a 
mother,” said Lizzie, with all her energy. 
Then he kissed her again, her forehead 
and her lips, and took his leave, promising 
to be with her at any rate on Wednesday. 

“Lady Fawn!*” she said to herself. 


The name did not sound so well as that 
of Lady Eustace. But it is much to be*a 
wife ; and more to be a peeress. 


CHAPTER IX. 

SHOWING WHAT THE MISS FAWNS SAID, AND 
WILiT MRS. HITTAWAY THOUGHT. 

In the way of duty Lord Fawn was a 
Hercules, not, indeed, “ climbing trees in 
the Ilesperides,” but achieving enter- 
prises which to other men, if not impos- 
sible, would have been so unpalatable as 
to have been put aside as impracticable. 
On the Monday morning, after he was ac- 
cepted by Lady Eustace, he was with his 
mother at Fawn Court before he went 
down to the India Office. 

He had at least been very honest in the 
description he had given of his own cir- 
cumstances to the lady whom he intended 
to marry. He had told her the exact 
truth ; and though she, with all her 
cleverness, had not been able to realize 
the facts when related to her so suddenly, 
still enough had been said to make it 
quite clear that, when details of business 
should hereafter be discussed in a less 
hurried manner, he would be able to say 
that he had explained all his circum- 
stances before he' had made his offer. 
And he had been careful, too, as to her 
affairs. He had ascertained that her late 
husband had certainly settled upon her 
for life an estate worth four thousand a 
year. He knew, also, that eight thou- 
sand pounds had been left her, but of that 
he took no account. It might be probable 
that she would have spent it. If any of it 
were left, it would be a godsend. Lord 
Fawn thought a great deal about money. 
Being a poor man, filling a place fit only 
for rich men, he had been driven to think 
of money, and had become self-denying 
and parsimonious, perhaps we may say 
hungry and close-fisted. Such a condi- 
tion of character is the natural conse- 
quence of such a position. There is, 
probably, no man who becomes naturally 
so hard in regard to money as he who is 
bound to live among rich men, who is not 
rich himself, and who is yet honest. The 
weight of the work of life in these circum- 
stances is so crushing, requires such con- 
tinued thought, and makes itself so con- 
tinually felt, that the mind of the suf- 
ferer is never free from the contamination 
of sixpences. Of such a one it is not fair 


44 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


to judge as of other men with similar in- 
comes. Lord Fawn had declared to his 
future bride that he had half five thou- 
sand a year to spend, or the half, rather, 
of such actual income as might be got in 
from an estate presumed to give five thou- 
sand a year, and it may be said that an 
unmarried gentleman ought not to be 
poor with such an income. But Lord 
Fawn unfortunately was a lord, unfortu- 
nately was a landlord, unfortunately was 
an Irish landlord. Let him be as careful 
as he might with his sixpences, his pounds 
would fly from him, or, as might per- 
haps be better said, could not be made 
to fly to him. He was very careful with 
his sixpences, and was always thinking, 
not exactly how he might make two ends 
meet, but how to reconcile the strictest 
personal economy with the proper bearing 
of an English nobleman. 

Such a man almost naturally looks to 
marriage as an assistance in the dreary 
tight. It soon becomes clear to him that 
he cannot marry without money, and he 
learns to think that heiresses have been 
invented exactly to suit his case. He is 
conscious of having been subjected to 
hardship by Fortune, and regards female 
wealth as his legitimate mode of escape 
from it. He has got himself, his position, 
and perhaps his title, to dispose of, and 
they are surely worth so much per annum. 
As for giving anything away, that is out 
of the question. He has not been so 
placed as to be able to give. But, being 
an honest man, he will, if possible, make 
a fair bargain. Lord Fawn was certainly 
an honest man, and he had been endeav- 
oring for the last six or seven years to 
make a fair bargain. But then it is so 
hard to decide what is fair. Who is to 
tell a Lord Fawn how much per annum he 
ought to regard himself as worth? He 
had, on one or two occasions, asked a high 
price, but no previous bargain had been 
made. No doubt he had come down a lit- 
tle in his demand in suggesting a matri- 
monial arrangement to a widow with a 
child, and with only four thousand a year. 
Whether or no that income was hers in 
perpetuity, or only for life, he had not 
pasitively known when he made his offer. 
The will made by Sir Florian Eustace did 
not refer to the property at all. In the 
natural course of things, the widow would 
only have a life-interest in the income. 
VV^hy should Sir Florian make away, in 
perpetuity, with his family property? 


Nevertheless, there had been a rumor 
abroad that Sir Florian had been very 
generous ; that the Scotch estate was to 
go to a second son in the event of there 
being a second son ; but that otherwise it 
was to be at the widow’s own disposal. 
No doubt, had Lord Fawn been persistent, 
he might have found out the exact truth. 
He had, however, calculated that he could 
afford to accept even the life-income. If 
more should come of it, so much the bet- 
ter for him. He might, at any rate, so 
arrange the family matters that his heir, 
should he have one, should not at his 
death be called upon to pay something 
more than half the proceeds of the family 
property to his mother, as was now done 
by himself. 

Lord Fawn breakfasted at Fawn Court 
on the Monday, and his mother sat at the 
table with him, pouring out his tea. “ Oh, 
Frederic,” she said, “it is so impor- 
tant ! ” 

“Just so; very important indeed. I 
should like you to call and see her either 
to-day or to-morrow.” 

“ That’s of course.” 

“And you had better get her down 
here.” 

“ I don’t know that she’ll come. Ought 
I to ask the little boy ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said Lord Fawm, as he put 
a spoonful of egg into his mouth ; “ cer- 
tainly.” 

“ And Miss Macnulty? ” 

“ No ; I don’t see that at all. I’m not 
going to marry Miss Macnulty. The 
child, of course, must be one of us.” 

“ And what is the income, Frederic? ” 
“ Four thousand a year. Something 
more nominally, but four thousand to 
spend.” 

“ You are sure about that? ” 

“ Quite sure.” 

“ And for ever? ” 

“ I believe so. Of that I am not sure. ’ 
“ It makes a great difference, Frederic.’^ 
“ A very great difference indeed. I 
think it is her own. But at any rate she 
is much younger than I am, and there 
need be no settlement out of my property. 
That is the great thing. Don’t you think 
she’s — nice? ” 

“ She is very lovely.” 

“ And clever? ” 

“ Certainly very clever. I hope she is 
not self-willed, Frederic.” 

“ If she is, we must try and balance it,’* 
said Lord Fawn, with a little smile. But 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


45 


in truth, he had thought nothing about 
any such quality as that to which his 
mother now referred. The lady had an 
income. That was the first and most in- 
dispensable consideration. She was fairly 
well-born, was a lady, and was beautiful. 
In doing Lord Fawn justice, we must al- 
low that, in all his attempted matrimoni- 
al speculations, some amount of feminine 
loveliness had been combined with femi- 
nine wealth. He had for two years been 
a suitor of V’’iolet Effingham, who was the 
acknowledged beauty of the day— -of Vio- 
let Effingham, who at the present time 
was the wife of Lord Chiltern ; and he 
had offered himself thrice to Madame jMax- 
Goesler, who was reputed to be as rich as 
she was beautiful. In either case, the 
fortune would have been greater than that 
which he would now win, and the money 
would certainly have been for ever. But 
in these attem^^ts he had failed ; and Lord 
Fawn was not a man to think himself ill- 
used because he did not get the first good 
thing for which he asked. 

“ 1 suppose I may tell the girls ? ” said 
Lady Fawn. 

“ Yes, when I am gone. I must be off 
now, only I could not bear not to come 
and see you.” 

“ It was so like you, Frederic.” 

“ And you’ll go to-day ? ” 

“ Yes, if you wish it — certainly.” 

“ Go up in the carriage, you know, and 
take one of the girls with you. I would 
not take more than one. Augusta will be 
the best. You’ll see Clara, I suppose.” 
Clara was the married sister, JMrs. llitta- 
way. 

“If you wish it.” 

“ She had better call too — say on Thurs- 
day. It’s quite as well that it should be 
known. I shan’t choose to have more de- 
lay than can be avoided. Well, I believe 
that’s all.” 

“ I hope she’ll be a good wife to you, 
Frederic.” 

“ I don’t see why she shouldn’t. Good- 
by, mother. Tell the girls I will see them 
next Saturday.” He didn’t see why this 
woman he was about to marry should not 
be a good wife to him ! And yet he 
knew nothing about her, and had not 
taken the slightest trouble to make in- 
quiry. , That she was pretty he could see ; 
that she was clever he could understand ; 
that she lived in IMount street was a fact ; 
her parentage was known to him ; that 
she was the undoubted mistress of a large 


income was beyond dispute. But, for 
aught he knew, she might be afflicted by 
every vice to whiph a woman can be sub- 
ject. In truth, she was afflicted by so 
many, that the addition of all the others 
could hardly have made her worse than 
she was. She Jiad never sacrificed her 
beauty to a lover — she had never sacrificed 
anything to- anybody — nor did she drink. 
It would be difficult, perhaps, to say any- 
thing else in her favor; and yet Lord 
Fawn was quite content to marry her, not 
having seen any reason why she’ should 
not make a good wife ! Nor had Sir Flo- 
rian seen any reason ; but she had broken 
Sir Florian’s heart. 

When the girls heard the news they 
were half frightened and half delighted. 
Lady Fawn and her daughters lived very 
much out of the world. They also were 
poor rich people — if such a term may be 
used — and did not go much into society. 
There was a butler kept at Fawn Court, 
and a boy in buttons, and two gardeners, 
and a man to look after the cows, and a 
carriage and horses, and a fat coachman. 
There was a cook and a scullery maid, and 
two -lady’s maids — who had to make the 
dresses — and two housemaids and a dairy- 
maid. There was a large old brick house 
to be kept in order, and handsome grounds 
with old trees. There was, as we know, 
a governess, and there were seven unmar- 
ried daughters. With such incumbrances, 
and an income altogether not exceeding 
three thousand pounds per annum. Lady 
Fawn could not be rich. And yet Avho 
•would say that an old lady and her daugh- 
ters could be poor with three thousand 
pounds a year to spend ? It may be taken 
almost as a rule by the unennobled ones 
of this country, that the sudden possession 
of a title would at once raise the price of 
every article consumed twenty per cent. 
^Mutton that before cost ninepence Avould 
cost tenpence a pound, and the mouths to 
be fed Avould demand more meat. The 
chest of tea would run out quicker. The 
laborer’s work, which for the farmer is ten 
hours a day, for the squire nine, is for the 
peer only eight. Miss Jones, when she 
becomes Lady de Jongh, does not pay less 
than threepence apiece for each my 
lady ” with which her ear is' tickled. 
Even the baronet when he becomes a lord 
has to curtail his purchases because of 
increased price, unless he be very wide 
awake to the affairs of the world. Old 
Hady Fawn, who would not on any ac 


46 


THE EUSTACE DIAJViONDS. 


count have owed a shilling which she 
could not pay, and who, in the midst of 
her economies, was not close-fisted, knew 
very well what she could do and what she 
could not. The old family carriage and 
the two lady’s maids were there, as neces- 
saries of life ; but London society was not 
within her reach. It was, therefore, the 
case that they had not heard very much 
about Lizzie Eustace. But they had 
heard something. “ I hope she won’t be 
too fond of going out,” said Amelia, the 
second ^irl. 

“ Or extravagant,” said Georgiana, the 
third. 

“ There was some story of her being 
terribly in debt when she married Sir 
riorian Eustace,” said Diana, the fourth. 

“ Frederic will be sure to see to that,” 
said Augusta, the eldest. 

“She is very beautiful,” said Lydia, 
the fifth. 

“ And clever,” said Cecilia, the sixth. 

“Beauty and cleverness won’t make a 
good wife,” said Amelia, who was the 
wise one of the family. 

“ Frederic will be sure to see that she 
doesn’t go wrong,” said Augusta, who 
was not wise. 

Then Lucy Morris entered the room 
with Nina, the cadette of the family. 
“ Oh, Nina, what do you think?” said 
Lydia. 

“ My dear ! ” said Lady Fawn, putting 
up her hand and stopping further indis- 
creet speech. - - ' 

“Oh, mamma, what is it?” asked the 
cadette. 

“ Surely Lucy may be told,” said 
Lydia. 

“Well, yes; Lucy may be told cer- 
tainly. There can be no reason why 
Lucy should not know all that concerns 
our family ; and the more so as she has 
been for many yeai-s intimate with the 
lady. My dear, my son is going to be 
married to Lady Eustace.” 

“ Lord Fawn going to marry Lizzie ! ” 
said Lucy Morris, in a tone which cer- 
tainly did not express unmingled satis- 
faction. 

“ Unless you forbid the banns,” said 
Diana. 

“Is there any reason why he should 
not ? ” said Lady Fawn. 

“Oh, no ; only it seems so odd. I 
didn’t know that they knew each other ; 
not well, that is. And then ” 

“ Then what, my dear? ” 


“ It seems odd ; that ’s all. It’s all very 
nice, I dare say, and I'm sure I hope they 
will be happy.” Lady Fawn, however, 
was displeased, and did not speak to Lucy 
again before she started with Augusta on 
the journey to London. 

The carriage first stopped at the door 
of the married daughter in Warwick 
Square. Now Mrs. Hittaway, whose 
husband was chairman of the Board of 
Civil Appeals, and who was very well 
known at all Boards and among ofiicial 
men generally, heard much more about 
things that were going on than did her 
mother. And, having been emancipated 
from maternal control for the last ten or 
twelve years, she could express herself 
before her mother with more confidence 
than would have become the other girls. 
“Mamma,” she said, “you don’t mean 
it! ” 

“ I do mean it, Clara. Why should I 
not mean it? ” 

“ She is the greatest vixen in all Lon- 
don.” 

“Oh, Clara! ” said Augusta. 

“ And such a liar,” said Mrs. Hitta- 
way. 

There came a look of pain across Lady 
Fawn’s face, for Lady Fawn believed in 
her eldest daughter. But yet she in- 
tended to fight her ground on a matter so 
important to her as was this. “ There is no 
word in the English language,” she said, 
“ which conveys to me so little of defined 
meaning as that word vixen. If you can, 
tell me what you mean, Clara.” 

“ Stop it, mamma.” 

“But why should I stop it, even if I 
could?” 

“ You don’t know her, mamma.” 

“ She has visited at Fawn Court more 
than once. She is a friend of Lucy’s.” 

“If she is a friend of Lucy Morris, 
mamma, Lucy Morris shall never come 
here.” 

“But what has she done?* I have 
never heard that she has behaved improfH 
erly. What does it all mean ? She goes 
out everywhere. I don’t think she has 
had any lovers. Frederic would be the 
last man in the world to throw himself 
away upon an ill-conditioned young 
woman.” 

“ Frederic can see just as far as some 
other men, and not a bit further. Of 
I course she has an income — for her life.” 

I “I believe it is her own altogether 
Clara.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAIMONDS. 


47 


“ She says so, I don’t doubt. I believe 
she is the greatest liar about London. 
You find out about her jewels before she 
married poor Sir Florian, and how much 
he had to pay for her. Or rather, I’ll 
find out. If you want to know, mamma, 
you just ask her own aunt. Lady Lin- 
lithgow.” 

“We all know, my dear, that Lady 
Linlithgow quarelled with her.” 

“It’s my belief that she is over head 
and ears in debt again. But I’ll learn. 
And when I have found out, I shall not 
scruple to tell Fredeiic. Orlando will 
find out all about it.” Orlando was the 
Christian name of Mrs. Hittaway’s hus- 
band. “Mr. Camperdown, I have no 
doubt, knows all the ins and outs of her 
story. The long and the short of it is 
this, mamma, that I’ve heard quite enough 
about Lady Eustace to feel certain that 
Frederic would live to repent it.” 

“But what can we do?” said Lady 
Fawn. 

“ Break it off,” said Mrs. Ilittaway. 

Her daughter’s violence of speech had 
a most depressing effect upon poor Lady 
Fawn. As has been said, she did believe 
in Mrs. Ilittaway. She knew that Mrs. 
Hittaway was conversant with the things 
of the world, and heard tidings daily 
which never found their way down to 
Fawn Court. And yet her son went 
about quite as much as did her daughter. 
If Lady Eustace was such a reprobate as 
was now represented, why had not Lord 
Fawn heard the truth? And then she 
had already given in her own adhesion, 
and had promised to call. “ Do you mean 
that you won’t go to her?” said Lady 
Fawn. 

“ As Lady Eustace? certainly not. If 
Frederic does maj’ry her, of coui*se I must 
know her. That’s a different thing. One 
has to make the best one can of a bad bar- 
gain. I don’t doubt they’d be separated 
before two years were over.” 

“Oh, dear, how dreadful ! ” exclaimed 
Augusta. 

Lady Fawn, after much consideration, 
was of opinion that she must carry out 
her intention of calling upon her son’s 
intended bride in spite of all the evil 
things that had been said. Lord Fawn 
had undertaken to send a message to 
Mount street, informing the lady of the 
honor intended for her. ’ And in truth 
Lady Fawn was somewhat curious now to 
see the household of the woman -who 


might perhaps do her the irreparable in- 
jury of ruining the happiness of her only 
son. Perhaps she might learn something 
by looking at the woman in her own 
drawing-room. At any rate she would 
go. But Mrs. Hittaway’s words had 
the effect of inducing her to leave Augusta 
where she was. If there were contamina- 
tion, why should Augusta be contam- 
inated ? Poor Augusta ! She had looked 
forward to the delight of embracing her 
future sister-in-law ; and w'ould not have 
enjoyed it the less, perhaps, because she 
had been told that the lady was false, 
profligate, and a vixen. As, however, 
her position was that of a girl, she was 
bound to be obedient, though over thirty 
years old, and she obeyed. 

Lizzie was of course at home, and 
Miss Macnulty was of course visiting the 
Horticultural Gardens or otherwise en- 
gaged. On such an occasion Lizzie would 
certainly be alone. She had taken great 
pains with her dress, studying not so 
much her own appearance as the charac- 
ter of her visitor. She was very anxious, 
at any rate for the present, to win golden 
opinions from Lady Fawn. She was 
dressed richly, but very simply. Every- 
thing about her room betokened wealth ; 
but she had put away the French novels, 
and had placed a Bible on a little table, 
not quite hidden, behind her own seat. 
The long lustrous lock was tucked up, but 
the diamonds were still upon her fingers. 
She fully intended to make a. conquest of 
her future mother-in-law and sister-in- 
law ; for the note which had come up to 
her from the India Office had told her that 
Augusta would accompany Lady Fawn. 
“ Augusta is my favorite sister,” said the 
enamored lover, “ and I hope that you 
two will always be friends.” Lizzie, 
when she had read this, had declared to 
herself that of all the female oafs she had 
ever seen, Augusta Fawn was the great- 
est oaf. When she found that Lady 
Fawn was alone, she did not betray her- 
self, or ask for the beloved friend of the 
future. “ Dear, dear Lady Fawn,” she 
said, throwing herself into the arms and 
nestling herself against the bosom of the 
old lady, “ this makes my happiness per- 
fect.” Then she retreated a little, still 
holding the hand she had gi*asped be- 
tween her own, and looking up into the 
face of her future mother-in-law. “ When 
he asked me to be his wife, the fii’st thing 
I thought of was whether you would come 


48 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


to me at once.” Her voice as she thus 
spoke was perfect. Her manner was al- 
most perfect. Perhaps there was a little 
too much of gesture, too much gliding 
motion, too violent an appeal with the 
eyes, too close a pressure of the hand. 
No suspicion, however, of all this would 
have touched Lady Fawn had she come to 
Mount street without calling in Warwick 
square on the ^yay. But those horrible 
words of her daughter were ringing in 
her ears, and she did not know how to 
conduct herself. 

“Of course I came as soon as he told 
me,” she said. 

“And you will be a mother to me?” 
demanded Lizzie. 

Poor Lady Fawn ! There was enough 
of maternity about her to have enabled 
her to undertake the duty for a dozen 
sons’ wives — if the wives were women 
with whom she could feel sympathy. And 
she could feel sympathy very easily, and 
she was a woman not at all prone to in- 
quire too curiously as to the merits of a 
son’s wife. But what was she to do after 
the caution she had received from Mrs. 
Hittaway ? How was she to promise ma- 
ternal tenderness to a vixen and a liar? 
By nature she was not a deceitful woman. 
“ My dear,” she said, “ 1 hope you will 
make him a good wife.” 

It was not very encouraging, but Lizzie 
made the best of it. It was her desire to 
cheat Lady Fawn into a good opinion, and 
she was not disappointed when no good 
opinion was expressed at once. It is sel- 
dom that a bad person expects to be ac- 
counted good. It is the general desire of 
such a one to conquer the existing evil 
impression ; but it is generally presumed 
that the evil impression is there. “ Oh, 
Lady Fawn ! ” she said, “ I will so strive 
to make him happy. What is it that he 
likes? What would he wish me to do 
and to be? You know his noble nature, 
and I must look to you for guidance.” 

Lady Fawn was embarrassed. She had 
now seated herself on the sofa, and Lizzie 
was close to her, almost enveloped within 
her ipantle. “ My dear,” said Lady 
Fawn, “ if you will endeavor to do your 
duty by him, I am sure he will do his by 
you.” 

“I know it. I am sure of it. And I 
will ; I, will. You will let me love you, and 
call you mother?” A peculiar perfume 
came up from Lizzie’s hair which Lady 


Fawn did not like. Her own girls, per- 
haps, were not given to the use of much 
perfumery. She shifted her seat a little, 
and Lizzie was compelled to sit upright, 
and without support. Hitherto Lady 
Fawn had said very little, and Lizzie’s 
part was one difficult to play. She had 
heard of that sermon read every Sunday 
evening at Fawn Court, and she believed 
that Lady Fawn was peculiarly religious. 
“ There,” she said, stretching out her 
hand backwards and clasping the book 
which lay upon the small table ; “ there, 
that shall be my guide. That will teach 
me how to do my duty by my noble hus- 
band.” 

Lady Fawn in some surprise took the 
book from Lizzie’s hand, and found that 
it was the Bible. “ You certainly can’t 
do better, my dear, than read your 
Bible,” said Lady Fawn ; but there was 
more of censure than of eulogy in the tone 
of her voice. She put the Bible down 
very quietly, and asked Lady Eustace 
when it would suit her to come down to 
Fawn Court. Lady Fawn had promised 
her son to give the invitation, and could 
not now, she thought, avoid giving it. 

“ Oh, I should like it so much! ” said 
Lizzie. “Whenever it will suit you, I 
will be there at a minute’s notice.” It 
was then arranged that she should be at 
Fawn Court on that day week, and stay 
for a fortnight. “ Of all things that 
which I most desire now,” said Lizzie, 
“is to know you and the dear girls, and 
to be loved by you all.” 

Lady Eustace, as soon as she was alone 
in the room, stood in the middle of it, 
scowling — for she could scowl. “I’ll not 
go near them,” she said to herself; “ nas- 
ty, stupid, dull, puritanical drones. If 
he don’t like it, he may lump it. After 
all, it’s no such great catch.” Then 
she sat down to reflect whether it was 
or was not a catch. As soon as ever 
Lord Fawn had left her after the engage- 
ment was made, she had begun to tell 
herself that he was a poor creature, and 
that she had done wrong. Only five 
thousand a year ! ” she said to herself; for 
she had not perfectly understood that 
little* explanation which he had given re- 
specting his income. “It’s nothing for a 
lord.” And now again she murmured to 
herself, “ It’s my money he’s after. He’ll 
find out that I know how to keep what 1 
have got in my own hands.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


49 


Now that Lady Fawn had been cold to 
her, she thought still less of* the proposed 
marriage. But there was this inducement 
for her to go on with it. If they, the 
Fawn women, thought that they could 
■ break it off, she would let them know that 
they had no such power. 

“Well, mamma, you’ve seen her? ” said 
]Mrs. Hittaway. 

“ Yes, my dear ; I’ve seen her. I had 
seen her two or three times before, you 
know.” 

“ And you are still in love with her? ” 

“ I never said that I was in love with 
her, Clara.” 

“ And what has been fixed? ” 

“ She is to come down to Fawn Court 
next week, and stay a fortnight with us. 
Then we shall find out what she is.” 

“ That will be best, mamma,” said 
Augusta. 

“ Mind, mamma ; you understand me. 
I shall tell Frederic plainly just what 1 
think. Of course he will be offended, 
and if the marriage goes on, the offence 
will remain — till he finds out the truth.” 

“ I hope he’ll find out no such truth,” 
said Lady Fawn. She was, however, quite 
unable to say a word in behalf of her fu- 
ture daughter-in-law. She said nothing 
as to that little scene with the Bible, but 
she never forgot it. 


CHAPTER X. 

LIZZIE .iVXD HER LOVER. 

During the remainder of that Monday 
and all the Tuesday, Lizzie’s mind was, 
upon the whole , averse to matrimony . She 
had told Miss Macnulty of her prospects, 
with some amount of exultation ; and the 
poor dependent, though she knew that she 
must be turned out into the street, had 
congratulated her patroness. “ The Vul- 
turess will take you in again, when she 
knows you’ve nowhere else to go to,” 
Lizzie had said, displaying indeed some 
accurate discernment of her aunt’s charac- 
ter. But after Lady Fawn’s visit she 
spoke of the marriage in a different tone. 
“ Of course, my dear, I shall have to look 
very close after the settlement.” 

“ I suppose the lawyers will do that,” 
.said Mi&s Macnulty. 

“ Yes ; lawyers ! That’s all vei-y well. 
I know what lawyers are. I’m not going 
to trust any lawyer to give away my 
property. Of course we shall live at 

4 


Portray, because his place is in Ireland, 
and nothing shall take me to Ireland. I 
told him that from the very first. But 1 
don’t mean to give up my ovra income. 1 
don’t suppose he’ll venture to suggest 
such a thing.” And then again she 
grumbled, “ It's all very well being in 
the Cabinet ! ” 

“ Is Lord Fawn in the Cabinet? ” asked 
Miss Macnulty, who in such matters was 
not altogether ignorant. 

“ Of course he is,” said Lizzie, with an 
angry gesture. It may seem unjust to 
accuse her of being stupidly unacquainted 
with circumstances, and a liar at the same 
time ; but she was both. She said that 
Lord Fawn was in the Cabinet because 
she had heard some one speak of him as 
not being a Cabinet Minister, and in so 
S23eakmg appear to slight his political 
position. Lizzie did not know how much 
her companion knew, and Miss Macnulty 
did not comprehend the depth of the ig- 
norance of her patroness. Thus the lies 
which Lizzie told were amazing to ^liss 
Macnulty. To say that Lord Fawn was 
in the Cabinet, when all the world knew 
that he was an Under-Secretary ! What 
good could a woman get from an assertion 
so plainly, so manifestly false? But Liz- 
zie knew nothing of Under-Secretaries 
Lord Fawn was a lord, and even Common- 
ers were in the Cabinet. “ Of course he 
is,” said Lizzie ; “ but I shan’t have my 
drawing-room made a Cabinet. They 
sha’n’t come here.” And then again on 
the Tuesday evening she displayed her in- 
dependence. “ As for those women down 
at Richmond, I don’t mean to be overrun 
by them, I can tell you. I said I would 
go there, and of course I shall keep my 
word.” 

“ I think you had better go,” said Miss 
Macnulty. 

“ Of course, I shall go. 1 don’t want 
an 3 ^body to tell me where I’m to go, my 
dear, and where I’m not. But it’ll be 
about the first and the last. And as for 
bringing those dowdy girls out in London , 
it’s the last thing I shall think of doing. 
Indeed, I doubt whether they can afford 
to dress themselves.” As she went up to 
bed on the Tuesday evening. Miss Mac- 
nulty doubted whether the match would 
go on. She never believed her friend’s 
statements ; but if spoken words might 
be supposed to mean anything, Lady Eus- 
tace’s words on that Tuesday betokened 
a strong dislike to everything appertaip- 


50 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


' ing to the Fawn family. She had' even 
ridiculed Lord Fawn himself, declaring 
that he understood nothing about anything 
beyond his office. 

And, in truth, Lizzie had almost made 
up her mind to break it off. All that she 
would gain did not seem to weigh down 
with sufficient preponderance all that she 
would lose. Such were her feelings on 
the Tuesday night. But on the AVednes- 
day morning she received a note which 
threw her back violently upon the Fawn 
interest. The note was as follows ; 

Messrs. Camperdown and Son present their 
compliments to Lady Eustace. They have i*e- 
ceived instructions to proceed hy law for the re- 
covery of the Eustace diamonds, now in Lady 
Eustace’s hands, and will feel obliged to Lady 
Eustace if she will communicate to them the 
name and address of her attorney. 

62 New Square, 30 May, 186—. 

The effect pf this note was to drive Liz- 
zie back upon the Fawn interest. She 
was frightened about the diamonds, and 
was, nevertheless, almost determined not 
to surrender them. At any rate, in such 
a strait she would want assistance, either 
in keeping them or in giving them up 
The lawyer’s letter afflicted her with a 
sense of weakness, and there was strength 
in the Fawn connection. As Lord Fawn 
was so poor, perhaps he would adhere to 
the jewels. She knew that she could not 
fight Mr. Camperdown with no other as- 
sistance than what Messrs. Mowbray and 
Mopus might give her, and therefore her 
heart softened toward her betrothed. “ I 
suppose Frederic will be here to-day,” she 
said to Miss Macnulty, as they sat at 
breakfast together about noon. Miss 
Macnulty nodded. “ You can have a cab, 
you know, if you like to go anywhere.” 
Miss Macnulty said she thought she would 
go to the National Gallery. “And you can 
walk back, you know,” said Lizzie. “I 
can walk there and back, too,” said ^Miss 
Macnulty, in regard to whom it may be 
said that the last ounce would sometimes 
almost break the horse’s back. 

“Frederic” came, and was received 
very graciously. Lizzie had placed Mr. 
Camperdown’s note on the little table be- 
hind her, beneath the Bible, so that she 
might put her hand upon it at once if she 
could make an opportunity of showing it 
to her future husband. “ Frederic ” sat 
^himself beside her, and the intercourse for 
a while was such as might be looked for 
between two lovers of whom one was a , 


widow and the other an Under-Secretary 
of State from the India Office. They were 
loving, but discreetly amatory, talking 
chiefly of things material, each flattering 
the other, and each hinting now and again 
at certain little circumstances of which a 
more accurate knowledge seemed to be 
desirable. The one was conversant with 
things in general, but was slow ; the other 
was quick as a lizard in turning hither 
and thither, but knew almost nothing. 
When she told Lord Fawn that the Ayr- 
shire estate was “ her own, to do what 
she liked with,” she did not know that he 
would certainly find out the truth from 
other sources before he married her. In- 
deed, she was not quite sure herself 
whether the statement was true or false, 
though she would not have made it so fre- 
quently had her idea of the truth been a 
fixed idea. It had all been explained to 
her ; but there had been something about 
a second son, and there was no second son. 
Perhaps she might have a second son yet, 
a future little Lord Fawn, and he might 
inherit it. In regard to honesty, the man 
was superior to the woman, because his 
purpose was declared, and he told no lies ; 
but the one was as mercenary as the other. 
It was not love that had brought Lord 
Fawn to Mount street. 

“ AYhat is the name of your place in Ire- 
land?” she asked. 

“ There is no house, you know.” 

“ But there was one, Frederic? ” 

“ The town- land where the house used 
to be is called Killeagent. The old de- 
mesne is called Killaud.” 

“ What pretty names ! and — and— does 
it go a great many miles? ” Lord Fawn 
explained that it did run a good many 
miles up into the mountains. “ How 
beautifully romantic ! said Lizzie. “ But 
the people live on the mountain and pav 
rent?” 

Lord Fawn asked no such inept ques- 
tions respecting the Ayrshire property, 
but he did inquire who was Lizzie’s so- 
licitor “ Of course there will be things 
to be settled,” he said “and my lawyer 
had better see yours. Mr. Camperdown 
is a ” 

“Mr. Camperdowr . ” almost shrieked 
Lizzie. Lord Fawn then explained, with 
some amazement, that Mr. Camperdown 
was his lawyer. As far as his belief 
went, there was not a more respectable 
gentleman in the profession. Then he in- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


51 


quired whether Lizzie had any objection 
to Mr. Camperdown. “ Mr. Camperdown 
was Sir Florian’s lawyer,” said Lizzie. 

“ That will make it all the easier, I 
should think,” said Lord Fawn. 

“ I don’t know how that may be,” said 
Lizzie, trying to bring her mind to work 
upon the subject steadily. “Mr. Cam- 
perdown has been very uncourteous to 
me ; I must say that ; and, as I think, 
unfair. He wishes to rob me now of a 
thing that is quite my own.” 

“ What sort of a thing?” asked Lord 
Fawn slowly. 

“ A very valuable thing. I’ll tell you 
all about it, Frederic. Of course I’ll tell 
you everything now. I never could keep 
back anything from one that I loved. 
It’s not my nature. There ; you might 
as well read that note.” Then she put 
her hand back and brought Mr. Camper- 
down’s letter from under the Bible. Lord 
Fawn read it very attentively, and as he 
read it there came upon liim a great 
doubt. What sort of woman was this to 
whom he had engaged himself because she 
was possessed of an income? That Mr. 
Camperdown should be in the wrong in 
such a matter was an idea which never 
occurred to Lord Fawn. There is no form 
of belief stronger than that which the or- 
dinary English gentleman has in the dis- 
cretion and honesty of his own family 
lawyer. What his lawyer tells him to do 
he does. What his law'yer tells him to 
sign he signs. He buys and sells in obe- 
dience to the same direction, and feels per- 
fectly comfortable in the possession of a 
guide who is responsible and all but di- 
vine. “What diamonds are they?” 
asked Lord Fawn in a very low voice. 

“ They are my own — altogether my 
own. Sir Florian gave them to me. 
When he put them into my hands he said 
that they were to be my own for ever and 
ever. ‘ There,’ said he, ‘ those are yours 
to do what you choose with them.’ After 
that they oughtn’t to ask me to give them 
back, ought they? If you had been mar- 
ried before, and your wife had given you 
a keepsake, to keep for ever and ever, 
would you give it up to a lawyer ? You 
would not like it, would you, Frederic? ” 
She had put her hand on his and was look- 
ing up into his face as she asked the ques- 
tion. Again, perhaps, the acting was a 
little overdone ; but there were the tears 
in her eyes, and the tone of her voice was 
|)^?rlect. 


“Mr. Camperdown calls them Eustace 
diamonds^ — family diamonds,” said Lord 
Fawn. “ What do they consist of? What 
are they worth? ” 

“I’ll show them to you,” said Lizzie, 
jumping up and hurrying out of the 
room. Lord Fawn, when he was alone, 
rubbed his hands over his eyes and thought 
about it all. It would be a very harsh 
measure on the part of the Eustace family 
and of !Mr. Camperdown to demand from 
her the surrender of any trinket which her 
late husband might have given her in the 
manner she had described. But it was, 
to his thinking, most improbable that the 
Eustace people or the lawyer should be 
harsh to a widow bearing the Eustace 
name. The Eustaces were by disposition 
lavish, and old IMr. Camperdown was not 
one who would be strict in claiming little 
things for rich clients. And yet here was 
his letter, threatening the widow of the 
late baronet with legal proceedings for the 
recovery of jewels which had been given 
by Sir Florian himself to his wife as a 
keepsake ! Perhaps Sir Florian had made 
some mistake, and had caused to be set in 
a ring or brooch for his bride some jewel 
which he had thought to be his own, but 
which had, in truth, been an heirloom. 
If so, the jewel should, of course, be sur- 
rendered, or replaced by one of equal 
value. He was making out some such so- 
lution, when Lizzie returned with the mo- 
rocco case in her hand. “ It was the man- 
ner in which he gave it to me,” said Liz- 
zie, as she opened the clasp, “ which 
makes its value to me.” 

Lord Fawn knew nothing about jewels, 
but even he knew that if the circle of 
stones which he saw, with a Maltese cross 
appended to it, was constituted of real 
diamonds, the thing must be of great 
value. And it occurred to him at once 
that such a necklace is not given by a hus- 
band even to a bride in the manner de- 
scribed by Lizzie. A ring, or brooch, or 
perhaps a bracelet, a lover or a loving lord 
may bring in his pocket. But such an or- 
nament as this on which Lord Fawn was 
now looking is given in another sort of 
way. He felt sure that it was so, even 
though he was entirely ignorant of the 
value of the stones. “ Do you know 
what it is worth? ” he asked. 

Lizzie hesitated a moment and then re- 
membered that “ Frederic,” in his present 
position in regard to herself, might be 
glad to a.ssist her in maintaining the pos- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


session of a substantial property. “ I 
think they say its value is about — ten 
thousand pounds,” she replied. 

“Ten — thousand — pounds!” Lord Fawn 
riveted his eyes upon them. 

“ That’s what I am told — by a jeweller.” 

“ By what jeweller? ” 

“A man had to come and see them, 
about some repairs, or something of that 
kind. Poor Sir Florian wished it. x\nd 
he said so.” 

“ What was the man’s name?” 

“ I forget his name,” said Lizzie, who 
was not quite sure whether her acquaint- 
ance with Mr. Benjamin would be consid- 
ered respectable. 

“Ten thousand pounds! You don’t 
keep them in the house, do you ? ” 

“ I have an iron case up-stairs for them, 
ever so heavy.” 

“ And did Sir Florian give you the iron 
case?” 

Lizzie hesitated for a moment. “ Yes,” 
said she. “ That is — no. But he ordered 
it to be made ; and then it came, after he 
was — dead.” 

“ He knew their value, then.” 

“ Oh dear, yes. Though he never 
named any sum. lie told me, however, 
that they were very — very valuable.” 

Lord Fawn did not immediately recog- 
nize the falseness of every word that the 
woman said to him, because he was slow 
and could not think and hear at the same 
time. But he was at once involved in a 
painful maze of doubt and almost of dis- 
may. An action for the recovery of jew- 
els brought against the lady whom he was 
engaged to marry, on behalf of the family 
of her late husband, would not suit him at 
all. To have his hands quite clean, to be 
above all evil report, to be respectable, as 
it were, all round, was Lord Fawn’s spe- 
cial ambition. He was a poor man, and a 
greedy man, but he would have abandoned 
his official salary at a moment’s notice, 
rather than there should have fallen on 
him a breath of public opinion hinting 
that it ought to be abandoned. He was 
especially timid, and lived in a perpetual 
fear lest the newspapers should say some- 
thing hard of him. In that matter of the 
Sawab he had been very wretched, be- 
cause Frank Greystock had accused him 
of being an administrator of tyranny. He 
would have liked his wilb to have ten 
thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds very 
well ; but he would rather go without a 


wife forever — and without a wife’s for- 
tune — than marry a woman subject to an 
action for claiming diamonds not her own. 
“ I think,” said he at last, “that if you 
were to put them into Mr. Camperdown’s 
hands ” 

“ Into Mr. Camperdown’s hands ! ” 

“ And then let the matter be settled by 
arbitration ” 

“Arbitration? That means going to 
law? ” 

“ No, dearest ; that means not going to 
law. The diamonds would be intrusted 
to Mr. Camperdown ; and then some one 
would be appointed to decide Avhose prop- 
erty they were.” 

“ They’re my property,” said Lizzie. 

“ But he says they belong to the fam- 
ily.” 

“ He’ll say anything,” said Lizzie. 

“ My dearest girl, there can’t be a more 
respectable man than Mr. Camperdown. 
You must do something of the kind, you 
know.” 

“I shan’t do anything of the kind,” 
said Lizzie. “ Sir Florian Eustace gave 
them to me, and I shall keep them.” She 
did not look at her lover as she spoke; 
but he looked at her, and did not like the 
change which he saw on her countenance. 
And he did not like the circumstances in 
which he found himself placed. “ Why 
should Mr. Camperdown interfere? ” con- 
tinued Lizzie. “ If they don’t belong to 
me, they belong to my son ; and who has 
so good a right to keep them for him as I 
have? But they belong to me.” 

“ They should not be kept in a private 
house like this at all, if they are worth all 
that money.”- . -w- 

“ If I were to let them go, Mr. Camper- 
down would get them. There’s nothing 
he wouldn’t do to get them. Oh, Freder- 
ic, I hope you’ll stand to me, and not see 
me injured. Of course I only want them 
for my darling child.” 

Frederic’s face had become very long, 
and he was much disturbed in his mind. 
He could only suggest that he himself 
would go and see Mr. Camperdown and 
ascertain what ought to be done. To the 
last he adhered to his assurance that Mr 
Camperdown could do no evil ; till Liz- 
zie, in her wrath, asked him whether he 
believed Mr. Camperdown’s word before 
hers. “I think he would understand a 
matter of business better than you,” said 
the prudent lover. 


THE EUSTACE DIi\AIONDS. 


00 


“ He wants to rob me,” said Lizzie, 
“ and I shall look to you to prevent it.” 

When Lord Fawn took his leave, which 
he did not do till he had counselled her 
again and again to leave the matter in 
Mr. Caraperdown’s hands, the two were 
not in good accord together. It was his 
fixed purpose, as he declared to her, to see 
Mr. Camperdown ; and it was her fixed 
purpose, so at least she declared to him, 
to keep the diamonds, in spite of Mr. 
Camperdown. “ But, my dear, if it’s de- 
cided against, you,” said Lord Fawn 
gravely. 

“ It can’t be decided against me, if you 
stand by me as j^ou ought to do.” 

“ I can do nothing,” said Lord Fawn, 
in a tremor. Then Lizzie looked at him, 
and her look, which was very eloquent, 
called him a poltroon as plain as a look 
could speak. Then they parted, and the 
signs of afiection between them were not 
satisfactory. 

The door was hardly closed behind him 
before Lizzie began to declare to herself 
that he shouldn’t escape her. It was not 
yet twenty-four hours since she had been 
telling herself that she did not like the 
engagement and would break it off ; and 
now she was stamping her little feet, 
and clenching her little hands, and swear- 
ing to herself by all her gods that this 
wretched, timid lordling should not get 
out of her net. She did, in truth, despise 
him because he would not clutch the 
jewels. She looked upon him as mean 
and i:)altry because he was willing to sub- 
mit to ]Mr. Camperdown. But, yet, she 
was prompted to demand all that could be 
demanded from her engagement, because 
she thought that she perceived a some- 
thing in him which might produce in him 
a desire to be relieved from it. No ! lie 
should not be relieved. He should marry 
her. And she would keep the key of that 
iron box with the diamonds, and he should 
find what sort of a noise she would make 
if he attempted to take it from her. She 
closed the morocco case, ascended with it 
to her bedroom, locked it up in the iron 
safe, deposited the little patent key in its 
usual place round her neck, and then 
seated herself at her desk, and wrote let- 
ters to her various friends, making known 
to them her engagement. Hitherto she 
had told no one but Miss Macnulty, 
and, in her doubts, had gone so far as to 
desire Miss Macnulty not to mention it. 


Now she was resolved to blazon forth her 
engagement before all the world. 

The first “ friend ” to whom she wrote 
was Lady Linlithgow. The reader shall 
see two or three of her letters, and that 
to the countess shall be the first : 

“ My Dk\r Aunt : When you came to 
see me the other day, I cannot say that 
you were very kind to me, and I don’t 
suppose you care very much what becomes 
of me. But I think it right to let you 
know that I am going to be married. 1 
am engaged to Lord Fawn, who, as you 
know, is a peer, and a member of Her 
Majesty’s Government, and a nobleman ot 
great influence. I do not suppose that 
even you can say anything against such 
an alliance. 

“lam your affectionate niece, 

“ Eli. Eustace.” 

Then she wrote to Mrs. Eustace, the 
wife of the Bishop of Bobsborough. Mrs. 
Eustace had been very kind to her in the 
first da 3 "s of her widowhood, and had fully 
recognized her as the widow of the head 
of her husband’s family. Lizzie had liked 
none of the Bobsborough people. They 
were, according to her ideas, slow, respect- 
able, and dull. But they had not found 
much open fault with her, and she was 
aware that it was for her interest to re- 
main on good terms with them. Her let- 
ter, therefore, to Mrs. Eustace was some- 
what less acrid than that written to her 
Aunt Linlithgow : 

“ My Dear Mrs. Eustace : I hope you 
will be glad to hear from me, and will not 
be' sorry to hear my news. I am going to 
be married again. Of course I am not 
about to take a step which is in every way 
so very important without thinking about 
it a great deal. But I am sure it will be 
better for my darling little Florian in 
every way ; and as for myself, I have felt 
for the last two j'ears how unfitted I have 
been to manage everything mj'self. I 
have therefore accepted an offer made to 
me by Lord Fawn, who is, as you know, 
a peer of Parliament, and a most dis- 
tinguished member of Her Majesty’s Gov- 
j ernment ; and he is, too, a nobleman of 
I very great influence in every respect, and 
! has a property in Ireland, extending over 
ever so many miles, and running up into 
the mountains. His mansion there is 
I called Killmage, but I am not sure that I 


54 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


remember the name quite rightly. I hope 
I may see you there some day, and the 
dear bishop. I look forward with delight 
to doing something to make those dear 
Irish happier. The idea of rambling up 
into our own mountains charms me, for 
nothing suits my disposition so well as 
that kind of solitude. 

“ Of course Lord Fawn is not so rich a 
man as Sir Florian, but I have never 
looked to riches for my happiness. Not 
but what Lord Fawn has a good income 
from his Irish estates; and then, of 
course, he is paid for doing Her Majesty’s 
Government ; so there is no fear that he 
will have to live upon my jointure, which, 
of course, would not be right. Pray tell 
the dear bishop and dear Margaretta all 
this, with my love. You will be happy, 
I know, to hear that my little Flo is quite 
well. He is already so fond of his new 
papa ! ” [Lizzie’s turn for lying was ex- 
emplified in this last statement, for, as it 
happened, Lord Fawn had never yet seen 
the child.] 

‘ ‘ Believe me to be always 

“ Your most affectionate niece, 

“ Eli. Eustace.” 

There were two other letters — one to 
her uncle, the dean, and the other to her 
cousin Frank. There was great doubt in 
her mind as to the expediency of writing 
to Frank Greystock ; but at last she de- 
cided that she would do it. The letter to 
the dean need not be given in full, as it 
Mas very similar to that written to the 
bisliop’s wife. The same mention was 
made of her intended husband’s peerage, 
and the same allusion to Her Majesty’s 
Government — a phrase which she had 
heard from Lord Fawn himself. She spoke 
of the Irish property, but in terms less 
glowing than she had used in writing to 
the lady, and ended by asking for her 
uncle’s congratulation— and blessing. Her 
letter to Frank was as follows, and, doubt- 
less, as she wrote it, there was present to 
heP' mind a remembrance of' the fact that 
lie himself might have offered to her, and 
have had her if he would : 

“ Mv Dear Cousin : As I would rather 
that you should hear my news from my- 
self than from any one else, I write to tell 
you that I am going to be married to Lord 
Fawn. Of course I know that there are 
certain matters as to which you and Lord 
Fawn'do not agree— in politics, I mean ; 


but still I do not doubt but you will think 
that he is quite able to take care of your 
poor little cousin. It was only settled a 
day or two since, but it has been com- 
ing on ever so long. You understand iill 
about that, don’t you? Of course you 
must come to my wedding, and be very 
good to me — a kind of brother, you know ; 
for we have always been friends, haven’t 
we ? And if the dean doesn’t come up to 
town, you must give me away. And you 
must come and see me ever so often ; for I 
have a sort of feeling that I have no one else 
belonging to me that I can call really my 
own, except you. And you must be great 
friends with Lord Fawn, and must give 
up saying that he* doesn’t do his work 
properly. Of course he does everything 
better than anybody else could possibly do 
it, except Cousin Frank. 

“ I am going down next week to Rich- 
mond. Lady Fawn has insisted on my 
staying there for a fortnight. Oh dear, 
what shall I do all the time ? You must 
positively come down and see me, and see 
somebody else too. Only, you naughty 
coz, you mustn’t break a poor girl’s heart. 

“ Your affectionate cousin, 

“Eli. Eustace.” 

Somebody, in speaking on Lady Eus- 
tace’s behalf, and making the best of her 
virtues, had declared that she did not 
have lovers. Hitherto that had been true 
of her ; but her mind had not the less 
dwelt on the delight of a lover. She still 
thought of a possible Corsair who would 
be willing to give up all but his vices for 
her love, and for whose sake she would 
be willing to share even them. It was 
but a dream, but nevertheless it pervaded 
her fancy constantly. Lord Fawn, peer 
of Parliament, and member of Her Ma- 
jesty’s Government, as he was, could not 
have been such a lover to her. JMight it 
not be possible that there should exist 
something of romance between her and 
her cousin Frank? She was the last 
woman in the world to run away with a 
rSan, or to endanger her position by a seri- 
ous indiscretion; but there might per- 
haps be a something between her and her 
cousin, a liaison quite correct in its facts, 
a secret understanding, if nothing more, 
a mutual sympathy, which should be 
chiefly shown in the abuse of all their 
friends ; and in this she could indulge he?“ 
passion for romance and poetry. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


55 


CHAPTER XI. 

LORD FAWN AT HIS OFFICE. 

The news was soon all about London, 
as Lizzie had intended. She had made a 
sudden resolve that Lord Fawn should 
not escape her, and she had gone to work 
after the fashion we have seen. Frank 
Creystock had told John Eustace, and 
John Eustace had told Mr. Camperdown 
before Lord Fawn himself, in the slow pro- 
secution of his purpose, had consulted the 
lawyer about the necklace. “ God bless 
my soul ; Lord Fawn ! ” the old lawyer 
iiad said when the news was communi- 
cated to him. “ Well, yes ; he wants 
money. I don’t envy him ; that’s all. 
We sliall get the diamonds now, John. 
Lord Fawn isn’t the man to let his wife 
keep what doesn’t belong to her.” Then, 
after a day or two. Lord Fawn had him- 
self gone to ^Ir. Camperdovrn’s chambers. 
“ 1 believe 1 am to congratulate you, my 
lord,” said the lawj’er. “I’m told you 

are going to marrj' well, I mustn’t 

really say another of my clients, but the 
widow of one of them. Lady Eustace is a 
very beautiful woman, and she has a very 
pretty income too. She has the whole of 
the Scotch property for her life.” 

“It’s only for her life, I suppose?” 
said Lord Fawn. 

“ Oh, no, no ; of course not. There’s 
been some mistake on her part ; at least, 
so I’ve been told. Women never under- 
stand. It’s all as clear as daylight. Had 
there been a second son, the second son 
would have had it. As it is, it goes with 
the rest of the property, just as it ought 
to do, you know. Four thousand a year 
isn’t so bad, you know, considering that 
she isn’t more than a girl yet, and that 
she hadn’t sixpence of her own. When 
the admiral died, there wasn’t sixpence. 
Lord Fawn.” 

“ So I have heard.’ 

“ Not sixpence. It’s all Eustace mo- 
ney. She had six or eight thousand 
pounds, or something like that, besides. 
She’s as lovely a young widow as I ever 
saw, and very clever.” 

“ Yes, she is clever.” 

“ By-the-by, Lord Fawn, as you have 
done me the honor of calling, there’s a 
stupid mistake about some family dia- 
monds.” 

“It is in respect to them that I’ve 
come,” said Lord Fawn. Then Mr. Cam- 


perdown, in his easy, ofi-hand way, im- 
puting no blame to the lady in the hear- 
ing of her future husband, and declaring 
his opinion that she was doubtless un- 
aware of its value, explained the matter 
of the necklace. Lord Fawn listened, but 
said very little. He especially did not say 
that Lady Eustace had had the stones 
valued. “ They’re real, I suppose?” he 
asked. !Mr. Camperdown assured him 
that no diamonds more real had ever come 
from Golconda, or passed through jMr. 
Garnett’s hands. “They are as well 
known as any family diamonds in Eng- 
land,” said Mr. Camperdown. “ She has 
got into bad hands,” continued Mr. Cam- 
perdown. “ Mowbray and Mopus ; horri- 
ble people ; sharks, that make one blush 
for one’s profession , and I was really 
afraid there would have been trouble, 
But, of course, it’ll be all right now ; and 
if she’ll only come to me, tell her I’ll do 
everything I can to make things straight 
and comfortable for her. If she likes to 
have another lawyer, of course, that’s all 
right. Only make her understand who 
Mowbray and Mopus are. It’s quite out 
of the question. Lord Fawn, that your wife 
should have anything to do with Mowbray 
and IMopus.” Every word that Mr. Cam- 
perdown said was gospel to Lord Fawn. 

And yet, as the reader will understand, 
Mr. CamperdowTi had by no means ex- 
pressed his real opinion in this interview. 
He had .spoken of the widow in friendly 
terms, declaring that she w^as simply mis- 
taken in her ideas as to the duration of 
her interest in the Scotch property, and 
mistaken again about the diamonds ; 
whereas in truth he regarded her as a dis- 
honest, lying, evil-minded harpy. Had 
Lord Fawn consulted him simply as a 
client, and not have come to him an en- 
gaged lover, he would have expressed his 
opinion quite frankly ; but it is not the 
business of a lawyer to tell his client evil 
things of the lady whom that client is en- 
gaged to marry. In regard to the proper- 
ty he .spoke the truth, and he spoke what 
he believed to be the truth when he said 
that the whole thing would no doubt now 
be easily arranged. When Lord Fawn 
took his leave, Mr. Camperdown again 
declared to himself that as regarded mon- 
ey the match was very well for his lord- 
ship ; but that, as regarded the woman, 
Lizzie was dear at the price. “ Perhaps 
he doesn’t mind it,” said Mr. Camper- 

cy 


56 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


down to himself, “ but I wouldn’t marry 
such a woman myself, though she owned 
all Scotland.” 

There had been much in the interview 
to make Lord Fawn unhappy. In the first 
place, that golden hope as to the perpetu- 
ity of the property was at an end. He 
had never believed that it was so ; but a 
man may hope without believing. And 
he was quite sure that Lizzie was bound 
to give up the diamonds, and would ulti- 
mately be made to give them up. Of any 
property in them, as possibly accruing to 
himself, he had not thought much ; but 
he could not abstain from thinking of the 
woman’s grasp upon them. Mr. Camper- 
down’s plain statement, which was gospel 
to him, was directly at variance with Liz- 
zie’s story. Sir Florian certainly would 
not have given such diamonds in such a 
way. Sir Florian would not have ordered 
a separate iron safe for them, with a view 
that they might be secure in his wife’s 
bedroom. And then she had had them 
valued, and manifestly was always think- 
ing of her treasure. It was very well for 
a poor, careful peer to be always thinking 
of his money, but Lord Fawn was well 
aware that a young woman such as Lady 
Eustace should have her thoughts else- 
where. As he sat signing letters at the 
India Board, relieving himself when he 
was left alone between each batch by 
standing up with his back to the fire- 
place, his mind was full of all this. He 
could not uni-avel truth quickly, but he 
could grasp it when it came to him. She 
W’as certainly greedy, false, and dishonest. 
And — worse than all this — she had dared 
to tell him to his face that he was a poor 
creature because he would not support 
her in her greed, and falsehood, and dis- 
honesty ! Nevertheless, he was engaged 
to marry her ! Then he thought of . one 
Violet Efl6ngham whom he had loved, and 
then came over him some suspicion of a 
fear that he himself was hard and selfish. 
And yet what was such a one as he to do ? 
It was of course necessary for the main- 
tenance of the very constitution of his 
country that there should be future Lord 
Fawns. There could be no future Lord 
Fawns unlass he married ; and how could 
he marry without money? “A peasant 
can marry whom he pleases,” said Lord 
Fawm, pressing his hand to his brow, and 
dropping one flap of his coat, as he 
thought of his own high and perilous 


destiny, standing with his back to the 
fireplace, while a huge pile of letters lay 
there before him waiting to be signed. 

It was a Saturday evening, and as there 
was no House there was nothing to hurry 
him away from the oflSce. He was the 
occupier for the time of a large, well-fur- 
nished official room, looking out into St. 
James’s Park; and as he glanced round 
it he told himself that his own happiness 
must be there, and not in the domesticity 
of a quiet home. The House of Lords, 
out of which nol)ody could turn him, and 
official life — as long as he could hold to it 
— must be all in all to him. He had en- 
gagefl himself to this woman, and he must 
— marry her. He did not think that he 
could now see any way of avoiding that 
event. Her income would supply the 
needs of her home, and then there might 
probably be a continuation of Lord Fawns. 
The world might have done better for him 
— had he been able to find favor in Violet 
Effingham’s sight. He was a man capa- 
ble of love, and very capable of constancy 
to a woman true to him. Then he wiped 
away a tear as he sat down to sign the 
huge batch of letters. As he read some 
special letter ia which instructions were 
conveyed as to the insufficiency of the 
Sawab’s claims, he thought of Frank 
Greystock’s attack upon him, and of Frank 
Greystock’s cousin. There had been a 
time in which he had feared that the two 
cousins would become man and wife. At 
this moment he uttered a malediction 
against the member for Bobsborough, 
which might perhaps have been spared 
had the member been now willing to take 
the lady oflP his hands. Then the door was 
opened, and the messenger told him that 
Mrs. Hittaway was in the waiting-room. 
Mrs. Hittaway was, of course, at once 
made welcome to the Under-Secretary’s 
own apartment. 

]Mrs. Hittaway was a strong-minded 
woman — the strongest-minded probably of 
the Fawn family — but she had now come 
upon a task which taxed all her strengtli 
to the utmost. She had told her mother 
that she would tell “ Frederic ” what she 
thought about his proposed bride, and she 
had now come to carry out her threat. 
She had asked her brother to come and 
dine with her, but he had declined. His 
engagements hardly admitted of his din- 
ing with his relatives. She had called 
upon him at the rooms he occupied in 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Victoria street, but of course she had not 
found him. She could not very vrell go 
to his club ; so now she had hunted him 
down at his office. From the very com- 
mencement of the interview JMrs. Hitta- 
way was strong-minded. She began the 
subject of the marriage, and did so with- 
out a word of congratulation. “ Dear 
Frederic,” she said, “you know that we 
have all got to look up to you.” 

“ Well, Clara, Avhat does that mean?” 

“It means this — that you must bear 
with me, if I am more anxious as to 
your future career than another sister 
might be.” 

“ Now I know 3"ou are going to say 
something unpleasant.” 

“ Yes, I am, Frederic. I have heard 
.so many bad things about Lady Eus- 
tace f ” 

The Under-Secretary sat silent for a 
while in his great arm-chair. “What 
sort of evil things do j’ou mean, Clara?” 
he asked at last. “ Evil things are said 
of a great many people — as j’ou know. I 
am sure you would not wish to repeat 
slanders.” 

Mrs. llittaway was not to be silenced 
after this fashion. “ Not slanders, cer- 
tainly, Frederic. But when I hear that 
you intend to raise this lady to the rank 
and position of your wife, then of course 
the truth or falsehood of these reports be- 
comes a matter of great moment to us all. 
Don’t you think you had better see Mr. 
Camperdown?” i 

“ I have seen him.” 

“ And what does he say ? ’ 

“ What should he say ? Lady Eustace 
has, I believe, made some mistake about 
the condition of her property, and people 
who have heard it have been good-na- 
tured enough to say that the error has 
been wilful. That is what I call slander, 
Clara.” 

“ And you have heard about her jew- 
els? ” Mrs. llittaway was alluding here 
to the report which had reached her as to 
Lizzie’s debt to Harter and Benjamin when 
she married Sir Florian ; but Lord Fawn 


57 

of course thought ot the diamond neck- 
lace. 

“ Yes,” said he, “I have heard all 
about them.. Who told you ? ” 

“I have known it ever so long. Sir 
Florian never got over it.” Lord Fawn 
was again in the dark, but he did not 
choose to commit himself by asking fur- 
ther questions. “ And then her treat- 
ment of Lady Linlithgow, who was her 
only friend before she married, was some- 
thing quite unnatural. Ask the dean’s 
people what they think of her. I believe 
even they would tell you.” 

“ Frank Greystock desired to marry her 
himself.” 

“ Yes, for her money, perhaps ; because 
he has not got a farthing in the world. 
Dear Frederic, I only wish to put you on 
3’our guard. Of course this is very un- 
pleasant, and I shouldn’t do it if I didn’t 
think it my duty. I believe she is artful 
and very false. She certainly deceived Sir 
Florian Eustace about her debts ; and he 
never held up his head after he found out 
what she was. If she has told you false- 
hoods, of course you can break it off. 
Dear Frederic, I hope you won’t be angry 
with me.” 

“ Is that all ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, that is all.” 

“ I’ll bear it in mind,” he said. “ Of 
course it isn’t very pleasant.” 

“ No, I know it is not pleasant,” said 
]\Irs. llittaway, rising, and taking her de- 
parture with an offer of affectionate sis- 
terly greeting, which was not accejjted 
with cordiality. 

It was very unpleasant. That very 
morning Lord Fawn had received letters 
from the Dean and the Bishop of Bobs- 
borough congratulating him on his in- 
tended marriage, both those worthy digni- 
taries of the Church having thought it 
expedient to verify Lizzie’s statements. 
Lord Fawn was, therefore, well aware 
that Lady Eustace had published the en- 
gagement. It was knowTi to everybody, 
and could not be broken off without public 
scandal. 


CHAPTER XII. 

I ONLY THOUGHT OF IT. 

T here was great perturbation down at 
Fawn Court. On the day fixed, Mon- 
daj^, June 5, Lizzie arrived. Nothing fur- 
ther had been said by Lady Fawn to urge 
the invitation ; but, in accordance with the 
arrangement already made, Lady Eustace, 
with her child, her nurse, and her own 
maid, was at Fawn Court by four o’clock. 
A very long letter had been received from 
Mrs. Hittaway that morning, the writing 
of v/hich must have seriously interfered 
with the tranquillity of her Sunday after- 
noon. Lord Fawn did not make his ap- 
pearance at Richmond on the Saturday 
evening, nor was he seen on the Sunday. 
That Sunday was, we may presume, 
chiefly devoted to reflection. He certainly 
did not call upon his future wife. His 
omission to do so, no doubt increased Liz- 
zie’s urgency in the matter of her visit to 
Richmond. Frank Greystock had written 
to congratulate her. “ Dear Frank,” she 
had said in reply, “ a woman situated as 
I am has so many things to think of. 
Lord Fawn’s position will be of service to 
my child. Mind you come and see me at 
Fawn Court. I count so much on j^our 
friendship and assistance.” 

Of course she was expected at Rich- 
mond, although throughout the morning 
Lady Fawn had entertained almost a hope 
that she wouldn’t come. “ He was only 
lukewarm in defending her,” Mrs. Hitta- 
way had said in her letter, “and I still 
think that there may be an escape.” 
Not even a note had come from Lord 
Fawn himself, nor from Lady Eustace. 
Possibly something violent might have 
been done, and Lady Eustace would not 
appear. But Lady Eustace did appear, 
and, after a fashion, was made welcome 
at Fawn Court 

The Favrn ladies were not good hypo- 
crites. Lady Fawn had said almost noth- 
ing to her daughters of her visit to Mount 
street, but Augusta had heard the discus- 
sion in Mrs. Hitta way’s drawing-room as 
to the character of the future bride. The 
coming visit had been spoken of almost 


with awe, and there was a general connc- 
tion in the dovecote that an evil thing had 
fallen upon them. Consequently, their 
affection to the new comer, though spoken 
in words, was not made evident b}’’ signs 
and manners. Lizzie herself took care 
that the position in which she was re- 
ceived should be sufficiently declared. 
“ It seems so odd that I am to come among 
you as a sister,” she said. The girls 
were forced to assent to the claim, but 
they assented coldly. “ He has told me 
to attach myself especially to you,” she 
whispered to Augusta. The unfortunate 
chosen one, who had but little strength of 
her own, accepted the position, and then, 
as the only means of escaping the em- 
braces of her newly-found sister, pleaded 
the violence of a headache. “ My moth- 
er,” said Lizzie to Lady Fawn. “Yes, 
my dear,” said Lady Fawn. “ One of 
the girls had perhaps better go up and 
show you your room. ” “I am very much 
afraid about it,” said Lady Fawn to her 
daughter Amelia. Amelia replied only 
by shaking her head. 

On the Tuesday morning there came a 
note from Lord Fawn to his lady love. Of 
coui'se the letter was not shown, but Liz- 
zie received it at the breakfast table, and 
read it with many little smiles and signs 
of satisfaction. And then she gave out 
various little statements as having been 
made in that letter. He says this, and he 
says that, and he is coming here, and go- 
ing there, and he will do one thing, and 
he won’t do the other. We have often 
seen young ladies crowing over their 
lovers’ letters, and it was pleasant to see 
Lizzie crowing over hers. And yet there 
was but very little in the letter. Lord 
Fawn told her that what with the House 
and what with the Office, he could not 
get down to Richmond before Saturday; 
but that on Saturday he would come 
Then he signed himself “ Yours affection- 
ately, Fawn.” Lizzie did her crowing 
very prettily The outward show of it 
was there to perfection, so that the Fawn 
girls really believed that their brother 
had written an affectionate lover’s letter, 
Inwardly Lizzie swore to herself, as she 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


59 


read the cold words with indignation, that 
the man should not escape her. 

The days went by very tediously. On 
the Wednesday and the Friday Lady Eus- 
tace made an excuse of going up to town, 
and insisted on taking the unfortunate 
Augusta with her. There was no real 
reason for these journeys to London, un- 
less that glance which on each occasion 
was given to the contents of the iron case 
was a real reason. The diamonds were 
safe, and Miss Macnulty was enjoying 
herself. On the Friday Lizzie proposed to 
Augusta that they should jointly make a 
raid upon the member of Her Majesty’s 
Government at his office; but Augusta 
positively refused to take such a step. “ I 
know he would be angry,” pleaded Au- 
gusta. “ Pshaw ! w'ho cares for his an- 
ger? ” said Lizzie, But the visit was not 
made. 

On the Saturday — the Saturday which 
was to bring Lord Fawn down to dinner — 
another most unexpected visitor made his 
appearance. At about three o’clock Frank 
Greystock was at Fawn Court. Now it 
was certainly understood that Mr. Grey- 
stock had been told not to come to Fawn 
Court as long as Lucy Morris was there. 

Dear Mr. Greystock, I’m sure you will 
take what I say as I mean it,” Lady Fawn 
had whispered to him. “ You know how 
attached we all are to our dear little Lucy. 

Perhaps you know . ’ ’ There had been 

more of it ; but the meaning of it all was 
undoubtedly this, that Frank was not to 
pay visits to Lucy Morris at Fawn Court. 
Now he had come to see his cousin Lizzie 
Eustace. 

On this occasion Lady Fawn, with Ame- 
lia and two of the other girls, were out in 
the carriage. The unfortunate Augusta 
had been left at home with her bosom 
friend ; while Cecilia and Nina were sup- 
posed to be talking French with Lucy 
Morris . They were all out in the grounds , 
sitting upon the benches, and rambling 
among the shrubberies, when of a sudden 
Frank Greystock was in the midst of 
them. Lizzie’s expression of joy at seeing 
her cousin was almost as great as though 
he had been in fact a brother. She ran 
up to him and grasped his hand, and hung 
on his arm, and looked up into his face, 
and then burst into tears. But the tears 
were not violent tears. There were just 
three sobs, and two bright eyes full of 
JW^ater, and a lace handkerchief, and then 


a smile. “Oh, Frank,” she said, “it 
does make one think so of old times.” 
Augusta had by this time been almost 
persuaded to believe in her — though the 
belief by no means made the poor young 
woman happy. Frank thought that his 
cousin looked very well, and said some- 
thing as to Lord Fawn being “ the hap- 
piest fellow going.” “I hope I shall 
make him happy,” said Lizzie, clasping 
her hands together. 

Lucy meanwhile was standing in the 
circle with the others. It never occurred 
to her that it was her duty to run away 
from the man she loved. She had shaken 
hands with him, and felt something of af- 
fection in his pressure. She did not be- 
lieve that his visit was made entirely to 
his cousin, and had no idea at the moment 
of disobeying Lady Fawn. During the 
last few days she had been thrown very 
much with her old friend Lizzie, and had 
been treated by the future peeress with 
many signs -of almost sisterly affection. 
“ Dear Lucy,” Lizzie had said, “ you can 
understand me. These people — oh, they 
are so good, but they can’t understand 
me.” Lucy had expressed a hope that 
Lord Fawn understood her. “ Oh, Lord 
Fawn — well, yes ; perhaps — I don’t 
know. It so often happens that one’s 
husband is the last person to understand 
one.” 

“If I thought so, I wouldn’t marry 
him,” said Lucy. 

“ Frank Greystock will understand 
you,” said Lizzie. It was indeed true 
that Lucy did understand something of 
her wealthy friend’s character, and was 
almost ashamed of the friendship. With 
Lizzie Greystock she had never sympa- 
thized, and Lizzie Eustace had ahvays 
been distasteful to her. She already felt 
that the less she should see of Lizzie Fawn 
the better she should like it. 

Before an hour was over Frank Grey- 
stock was walking round the shrubberies 
with Lucy — and was walking with Lucy 
alone. It was undoubtedly the fact that 
Lady Eustace had contrived that it should 
be so. The unfitness of the thing recom- 
mended it to her. Frank could hardly 
marry a wife without a shilling. Lucy 
would certainly not think at all of shil- 
lings. Frank, as Lizzie knew, had been 
almost at her feet within the last fort- 
night, and might, in some possible emer- 
gency, be there again. In the midst of 


60 


THE EUSTACE DmiONDS. 


such circumstances nothing could be bet- 
ter than that Frank and Lucy should be 
thrown together. Lizzie regarded all this 
as romance. Poor Lady Fawn, had she 
known it all, would have called it diaboli- 
cal wickedness and inhuman cruelty. 

“Well, Lucy, what do you think of 
it? ” Frank Greystock said to her. 

“ Think of what, Mr. Greystock? ” 

“ You know what I mean — this mar- 
riage? ” 

“How should I be able to think? 1 
have never seen them together. 1 sup- 
pose Lord Fawn isn’t very rich. She is 
rich. And then she is very beautiful. 
Don’t you think her very beautiful? ” 

“ Sometimes exquisitely lovely.” 

“ Everybody says so, and I am sure it 
is the fact. Do you Imow — but perhaps 
you’ll think I am envious.” 

“If I thought you envious of Lizzie, I 
should have to think you very foolish at 
the same time.” 

“ I don’t know what that means ” — she 
did know well enough what it meant — 
“ but sometimes to me she Ls almost fright- 
ful to look at.” 

“ In what way? ” 

“ Oh, I can’t tell you. She looks like 
a beautiful animal that you are afraid to 
caress for fear it should bite you — an ani- 
mal that would be beautiful if its eyes 
were not so restless and its teeth so sharp 
and so white.” 

“ How very odd.” 

“ Why odd, Mr. Greystock? ” 

“ Because I feel exactly in the same 
way about her. I am not in the least 
afraid that she’ll bite me ; and as for ca- 
ressing the animal — that kind of caressing 
which you mean — it seems to me to be just 
what she’s made for. But I do feel some- 
times that she is like a cat.” 

“ Something not quite so tame as a 
cat,” said Lucy. 

“ Nevertheless she is very lovely, and 
very clever. Sometimes I think her the 
most beautiful woman I ever saw in the 
world.” 

“ Do you, indeed? ” 

“She will be immensely run after as 
Lady Fawn. When she pleases she can 
make her own house quite charming. I 
never knew a woman who could say pretty 
things to so many people at once.” 

“ You are making her out to be a para- 
gon of perfection, Mr. Greystock.” 

“ And when you add to all the rest that 


she has four thousand a year, you' must 
admit that Lord Fawn is a lucky man.” 

“I have said nothing against it.” 

“ Four thousand a year is a very great 
consideration, Lucy.” 

Lucy for a -while said nothing. She 
was making up her mind that she would 
say nothing — that she would make no re- 
ply indicative of any feeling on her part. 
But she was not sufficiently strong to keep 
her resolution. “ I wonder, Mr. Grey- 
stock,” she said, “that you did not at- 
tempt to win the great prize yourself. 
Cousins do marry.” 

He had thought of attempting it, and at 
this moment he would not lie to her. 
“ The cousinship had nothing to do with 
it,” he said. 

“ Perhaps j^ou did think of it.” 

“I did, Lucy. Yes, I did. Thank God, 
I only thought of it.” She could not re- 
frain herself from looking up into his face 
and clasping her hands together. A 
woman never so dearly loves a man as 
when he confesses that he has been on the 
brink of a great crime, but has refrained 
and has not committed it. “I did think 
of it. I am not telling you that she would 
have taken me. I have no reason what- 
ever for thinking so.” 

“ I am sure she would,” said Lucy, 
who did not in the least know what words 
she was uttering. 

“It would have been simply for her 
money — her money and her beauty. It 
would not have been because I love 
her.” 

“ Never — never ask a girl to marry you 
unless jmu love her, Mr. Greystock.” 

“ Then there is only one that I can ever 
ask,” said he. There was nothing, of 
course, that she could say to this. If he 
did not choose to go further, she was not 
bound to understand him. But would he 
go further? She felt at the moment that 
an open declaration of his love to herself 
would make her happy forever, even 
though it should be accompanied by an 
assurance that he could not marry her. 
If they only knew each other — that it was 
so between them — that, she thought, 
would be enough for her. And as for him 
— if a woman could bear such a position, 
surely he might bear it. “Do you kno-w 
who that one is? ” he asked. 

“No,” she said, shaking her head. 

“ Lucy, is that true ? ” 

“ What does it matter? ” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


61 


“ Lucy ; look at me, Lucy,” and he put 
his hand upon her arm. 

“ No, no, no,” she said.. 

“ I love you so well, Lucy, that I never 
can love another. 1 have thought of 
many women, but could never even think 
of one as a woman to love except you. 
I have sometimes fancied I could marry 
for money and position, to help myself on 
in the world by means of a wife ; but when 
my mind has run away with me, to revel 
amidst ideas of feminine sweetness, you 
have always — always been the heroine of 
the tale, as the mistress of the happy 
castle in the air.” 

“ Have I? ” she asked. 

“ Always, alwaj'S. As regards this,” 
and he struck himself on the breast, “■ no 
man was ever more constant. Though I 
don’t think much of myself as a man, I 
know a woman when I see her.” But he 
did not ask her to be his wife ; nor did he 
wait at Fawn Court till Lady Fawn had 
come back with the carriage. 


CHAPTER XTH. 

SUOWING WHAT i’RAXK GRETSTOCK DID. 

Frank Greystock escaped from the 
dovecote before Lady Fawn had returned. 
He had not made his visit to Richmond 
with any purpose of seeing Imcy Morris, 
or of saying to her when lie did see her 
anything special— of saying anything that 
should, or anything that should not, have 
been said. He had gone there, in truth, 
simply because his cousin had asked him, 
and because it was almost a duty on his 
part to see his cousin on the momentous 
occasion of this new engagement. But he 
had declared to himself that old Lady 
Fawn was a fool, and that to see Lucy 
again would be very pleasant. “ See her ; ” 
of course I’ll see her,” he had said. “ Why 
should I be prevented from seeing her? ” 
Now he had seen her, and as he returned 
by the train to London, he acknowledged 
to himself that it was no longer in his 
power to promote his fortune by marriage. 
He had at last said that to Lucy which 
made it impossible for him to offer his 
hand to any other woman. He had not, 
in truth, asked her to be his wife ; but he 
had told her that he loved her, and could 
never love any other woman. He had 
asked for no answer to this assurance, 
and then he had left her. 

In the course of that afternoon he did 


question himself as to his conduct to this 
girl, and subjected himself to some of the 
rigors of a cross-examination. He was 
not a man who could think of a girl as 
the one human being whom he loved above 
all others, and yet look for^vard with 
equanimity to the idea of doing her an in- 
jury. He could understand that a man 
unable to marry should be reticent as to 
his feelings, supposing him to have been 
weak enough to have succumbed to a 
passion which could only mar his own 
prospects. He was frank enough in own- 
ing to himself that he had been thus 
weak. The weakness had come upon 
himself early in life, and was there, an 
established fact. The girl was to him un- 
like any other girl, or any man. There 
was to him a sweetness in her companion- 
ship which he could not analyze. She 
was not beautiful. She had none of the 
charms of fashion. He had never seen 
her well dressed, according to the ideas 
of dress which he found to be prevailing 
in the world. She was a little thing, 
who, as a man’s wife, could attract no at- 
tention by figure, form, or outward man- 
ner ; one who had quietly submitted her- 
self to the position of a governess, and 
who did not seem to think that in doing 
so she obtained less than her due. But 
yet he knew her to be better than all the 
rest. For him, at any rate, she was bet- 
ter than all t]ie rest. Her little hand was 
cool and sweet to him. Sometimes, when 
he was heated and hard at work, he would 
fancy how it would be with him if she 
were by him, and would lay it on hLs 
brow. There was a sparkle in her eye 
that had to him more of sympathy in it 
than could be conveyed by all the other 
eyes in the world. There was an expres- 
sion in her mouth when she smiled which 
was more eloquent to him than any sound. 
There was a reality and a truth about her 
which came home to him, and made them- 
selves known to him as firm rocks which 
could not be shaken. He had never de- 
clared to himself that deceit or hypocrisy 
in a woman was especially abominable. 
As a rule he looked for it in women, and 
would say that some amount of affectation 
was necessary to a woman’s character. 
He knew that his cousin Lizzie was a lit- 
tle liar — that she was, as Lucy had said, 
a pretty animal that would turn and bite ; 
and yet he liked his cousin Lizzie. He 
did not want women to be perfect, so he 


03 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


would say. But Lucy Morris, in his 
eyes, was perfect , and when he told her 
that she was ever the queen who reigned 
in those castles in the air which he built, 
as others build them, he told her no more 
than the truth. 

He had fallen into these feelings, and 
cculd not now avoid them, or be quit of 
them ; but he could have been silent re- 
specting them. He knew that in former 
days, dovra at Bobsborough, he had not 
been altogether silent. When he had first 
seen her at Fawn Court he had not been 
altogether silent. But he had been warned 
a^vay from Fawn Court, and in that very 
warning there was conveyed, as it were, 
an absolution from the effect of words 
hitherto spoken. Though he had called 
Lady Fawn an old fool, he had known that 
it was so — had, after a fashion, perceived 
her wisdom — and had regarded himself as 
a man free to decide, without disgrace, 
that he might abandon ideas of ecstatic 
love and look out for a rich wife. Pre- 
suming himself to be reticent for the fu- 
ture in reference to his darling Lucy, he 
might do as he pleased with himself. Thus 
there had come a moment in which he had 
determined that he would ask his rich 
cousin to marry him. In that little pro- 
ject he had been interrupted, and the 
reader knows what had come of it. Lord 
Fawn’s success had not in the least an- 
noyed him. He had only half resolved in 
regard to his cousin. She was very beau- 
tiful no doubt, and there was her income ; 
but he also knew that those teeth would 
bite and that those claws would scratch. 
But Lord Fawn’s success had given a turn 
to his thoughts, and had made him think, 
for a moment, that if a man loved, he 
should be true to his love. The reader 
also knows what had come of that — how 
at last he had not been reticent. He had 
not asked Lucy to be his wife ; but he had 
said that which made it impossible that 
he should marry any other woman with- 
out dishonor. 

As he thought of what he had done him- 
self, he tried to remember whether Lucy 
had said a word expressive of affection for 
himself. She had in truth spoken very 
few words, and he could remember al- 
most every one of them. “ Have I? ” she 
had asked, when he told her that she had 
ever been the princess reigning in his 
castles. And there had been a joy in the 
question which she had not attempted to 


conceal. She had hesitated not at all. 
She had not told him that she loved him. 
But there had been something sweeter 
than such protestation in the question she 
had asked him. “ Is it indeed true,” she 
had said, “ that I have been placed there 
where all my joy and all my glory lies? ” 
It was not in her to tell a lie to him, even 
by a tone. She had intended to say noth- 
ing of her love, but he knew that it had 
all been told. “Have I?” he repeated 
the words to himself a dozen times, and as 
he did so, he could hear her voice. Cer- 
tainly there never was a voice that brought 
home to the hearer so strong a sense of its 
own truth ! 

Why should he not at once make up his 
mind to marry her? He could do it. 
There was no doubt of that. It was pos- 
sible for him to alter the whole manner of 
his life, to give up his clubs, to give up 
even Parliament, if the need to do so was 
there, and to live as a married man on 
the earnings of his profession. There was 
no need why he should regard himself as 
a poor man. Two things, no doubt, were 
against his regarding himself as a rich 
man. Ever since he had commenced life 
in London he had been more or less in 
debt ; and then, unfortunately, he had ac- 
quired a seat in Parliament at a period 
of his career in which the dangers of such 
a position were greater than the advan- 
tages. Nevertheless he could earn an in- 
come on which he and his wife, were he 
to marry, could live in all comfort ; and as 
to his debts, if he would set his shoulder 
to the work they might be paid off in a 
twelvemonth. There was nothing in the 
prospect which would frighten Lucy, 
though there might be a question wheth- 
er he possessed the courage needed for so 
violent a change. 

He had chambers in the Temple ; he 
lived in rooms which he hired from month 
to month in one of the big hotels at the 
West End ; and he dined at his club, or 
at the House, when he was not dining 
with a friend. It was an expensive and a 
luxurious mode of life, and one from the 
effects of which a man is prone to drilt 
very quickly into selfishness. He was by 
no means given to drinking, but he was 
already learning to like good wine. Small 
economies in reference to cab-hire, gloves, 
umbrellas, and railway fares, were un- 
known to him. Sixpences and shillings 
were things with which, in his mind, it 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


63 


was grievous to have to burden the 
thoughts. The Greystocks had all lived 
after that fashion. Even the dean himself 
was not free from the charge of extrava- 
gance. All this Frank knew, and he did 
not hesitate to tell himself that he must 
make a great change if he meant to marry 
Lucy Morris. And he was vrise enough 
to know that the change would become 
more difficult every day that it was post- 
poned. Hitherto the question had been 
an open question with him. Could it now 
be an open question any longer? As a 
man of honor, was he not bound to share 
his lot with Lucy Morris ? 

That evening — that Saturday evening — 
it so happened that he met John Eustace 
at a club to which they both belonged, 
and they dined together. They had long 
known each other, and had been throvni 
into closer intimacy by the marriage be- 
tween Sir Florian and Lizzie. John Eus- 
tace had never been fond of Lizzie, and 
now, in truth, liked her less than ever; 
but he did like Lizzie’s cousin, and felt 
that possibly Frank might be of use to 
him in the growing difficulty of managing 
the heir’s property and looking after the 
heir’s interests. 

“ You’ve let the widow slip through 
your fingers,” he said to Frank, as they 
sat together at the table. 

“ I told you Lord Fawn was to be the 
lucky man,” said Frank. 

“I know you did. I hadn’t, seen it. 
I can only say I wish it had been the other 
way.” 

“ VYhyso? Fawn isn’t a bad fellow.” 

“No, not exactly a bad fellow. He 
isn’t, you know, what I call a good fellow. 
In the first place, he is marrying her alto- 
gether for her money.” 

“ Which is just what you advised me to 
do.” 

“ I thought you really liked her. And 
then Fawn will be alwaj's afraid of her, 
and won’t be in the least afraid of us. We 
shall have to fight him, and he won’t 
fight her. He’s a cantankerous fellow — 
is Fawn — when he’s not afraid of his ad- 
versary.” 

“ But why should there be any fight- 
ing?” 

Eustace paused a minute, and rubbed 
his face and considered the matter before 
he answered. “ She is troublesome, you 
know,” he said. 

“What, Lizzie?” 


“ Yes ; and I begin to be afraid she’ll 
give us as much as we know how to do. 
I was with Camperdown to-day. I’m 
blessed if she hasn’t begun to cut down a 
whole side of a forest at Portray. She has 
no more right to touch the timber, except 
for repairs about the place, than you 
have.” 

“And if she lives for fifty years,” asked 
Grej'stock, “ is none to be cut? ” 

“ Yes — by consent. Of course the regu- 
lar cutting for the year is done, year by 
year. That’s as regular as the rents, and 
the produce is sold by the acre. But she 
is marking the old oaks. AYhat the deuce 
can she want money for ? ” 

“ Fawn will put all that right.” 

“He’ll have to do it,” said Eustace, 
“ Since she has been down with old Lady 
Fawn, she has written a note to Camper- 
down — after leaving all his letters unan- 
swered for the last twelvemonth — to tell 
him that Lord Fawn is to have nothing to 
do with her property, and that certain 
people, called Mowbray and Mopus, are 
her lawyo’S. Camperdown is in an awful 
way about it.” 

“ Lord Fawn will put it all right,” said 
Frank. 

“ Camperdown is afraid that he won’t. 
They’ve met twice since the engagement 
was made, and Camperdown says that, at 
the last meeting. Fawn gave himself airs, 
or was, at any rate, unpleasant. There 
were words about those diamonds.” 

“You don’t mean to say that Lord 
Fawn wants to keep your brother’s fajinily 

“ Camperdown didn’t say that exactly ; 
but Fawn made no offer of giving them up. 
I wasn’t there, and only heard what Cam- 
perdown told me. Camperdown thbiks 
he’s afraid of her.” 

“I shouldn’t wonder at that in the 
least,” said Frank. 

“ I know there’ll be trouble,” continued 
Eustace, “ and Fawn won’t be able to help 
us through it. She’s a strong-willed, cun- 
ning, obstinate, clever little creature. 
Camperdown swears he’ll be too many for 
her, but I almost doubt it.” 

“And therefore you wish I were going 
to marry her ? ” 

“Yes, I do. You might manage her. 
The money comes from the Eustace prop- 
erty, and I’d sooner it should go to you 
than a half-hearted, numb-fingered, cold- 
blooded Whig, like Fawn.” 


G 4 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ I don’t like cunning women,” said 
Frank. 

“As bargains go, it wouldn’t be a bad 
one,” said Eustace. “ She’s very young, 
has a noble jointure, and is as hand- 
some as she can stand. It’s too good 
a thing for Fa’s\Ti ; too good for any 
Whig.” 

When Eustace left him, Gre3*stock lit 
his cigar and walked with it in liLs mouth 
from Pall Mall to the Temple. He often 
worked there at night when he was not 
bound to be in the House, or when the 
House was not sitting ; and he was now 
intent on mastering the mysteries of some 
much-complicated legal case which had 
been confided to him, in order that he 
might present it to a jury enveloped in in- 
creased mystery. But, as he went, he 
thought rather of matrimony than of law; 
and he thought especially of matrimony 
as it was about to affect Lord Fawn. Could 
a man be justified in marrying for money, 
or have rational ground for expecting that 
he might make himself happy by doing 
so ? He kept muttering to himself as he 
went the Quaker’s advice to the old farm- 
er, “ Doan’t thou marry for munny, but 
goa where munny is ! ” But he muttered 
it as condemning the advice rather than 
accepting it. 

He could look out and see two alto- 
gether different kinds of life before him, 
both of which had their allurements. 
There Wiis the Belgrave-cum-Pimlico life, 
the scene of which might extend itself to 
South Kensington, enveloping the parks 
and coming round over Park Lane, and 
through Grosvenor Square and Berkeley 
Square back to Piccadilly. Within this he 
might live with lords and countesses and 
rich folk generally, going out to the Yery 
best dinner parties, avoiding stupid people, 
having everything the world could give, ex- 
cept a wife and family and home of his 
own. All this he could achieve by the 
work which would certainly fall in his 
way, and by means of that position in the 
world which he had already attained by 
his wits. And the wife, with the famil}' 
and house of his own, might be forthcom- 
ing, should it ever come in his way to 
form an attachment with a wealthy 
woman. He knew how dangerous were 
tlie charms of such a life as this to a man 
growing old among the flesh-pots, with- 
out any one to depend upon him. He 
had seen what becomes of the man who is 


[ alwaj's dining out at sixty. But he might 
avoid that. “ Doant thou marry for 
munny, but goa where munny Ls.” And 
then there was that other outlook, the 
scene of which was laid somewhere north 
of Oxford Street, and the glory of which 
consisted in Lucy’s smile, and Lucy’s 
hand, and Lucy’s kiss, as he returned 
home weary from his work. 

There are many men, and some women, 
who pass their lives without knowing 
what it is to be or to have been in love. 
They not improbably marrj" — the men do, 
at least, and make good average hus- 
bands. Their wives are useful to them, 
and they learn to feel that a woman, be- 
ing a wife, is entitled to all the respect, 
protection, and honor which a man can 
give, or procure for her. Such men, no 
doubt, often live honest lives, are good 
Christians, and depart hence with hopes 
as justifiable as though they had loved as 
well as Borneo. But yet, as men, they 
have lacked a something, the want of 
which has made them small, and poor, 
and dry. It has never been felt by such 
a one that there would be triumph in giv- 
ing away everything belonging to him for 
one little whispered, yielding word, in 
which there should be acknowledgment 
that he had succeeded in making himself 
master of a human heart. And there are 
other men, very many men, who have 
felt this love, and have resisted it, feeling 
it to be unfit that Love should be lord of 
all. Frank Grej^stock had told himself, 
a score of times, that it would be unbe- 
coming in him to allow a passion to ob- 
tain such masteiy of him as to interfere 
with his ambition. Could it be right that 
he who, as a 3'oung man, had already 
done so much, who might possibly have 
before him so high and great a career, 
should miss that, because he could not 
resist a feeling which a little chit of a girl 
had created in his bospm — a girl without 
money, without position, without even 
beauty ; a girl as to whom, were he to 
marry her, the world would say, “Oh, 
heaven ! there has Frank Grej^stock gone 
and married a little governess out of old 
Lady Fawn’s nursery”? And yet he 
loved her with all his heart, and to-day he 
had told her of his love. What should he 
do next ? 

The complicated legal case received 
neither much ravelling nor unravelling 
from his brains that night ; but before he 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


65 


left his chambers he wrote the following 
letter : 

“ Midnight, Saturday, 

“ All among my books and papers, 

“ 2 Bolt Court, Middle Temple. 

“ Dear, dear Lucy : I told you to-day 
that you ever had been the queen ^vho 
reigned in those palaces which I have 
built in Spain. You did not make me much 
of an answer ; but such as it was, only just 
one muttered doubtful-sounding word, it 
has made me hope that I may be justified 
in asking you to share with me a home 
which will not be palatial. If I am 

wrong ? But no ; I will not think 1 

am wrong, or that I can be wrong. No 
sound coming frora you is really doubtful. 
You are truth itself, and the muttered 
word would have been other than it was, 

if you had not ! may I say, had you 

not already learned to love me ? 

“ You will feel, perhaps, that I ought 
to have said all this to you then, and that 
a letter in such a matter is but a poor sub- 
stitute for a spoken assurance of afiection. 
You shall have the whole truth. Though 
I have long loved you, I did not go down 
to Fawn Court with the purpose of declar- 
ing to you my love. What I said to you 
was God’s truth ; but it was spoken with- 
out thought at the moment. I have 
thought of it much since ; and now I write 
to you to ask you to be my wife. I have 
lived for the last year or two with this 

hope before me ; and now . Dear, 

dear Lucy, I will not write in too great 
confidence ; but I will tell you that all 
my happiness is in yonr hands. 

“ If your answer is what I hope it may 
be, tell Lady Fawn at once. I shall im- 
mediately write to Bobsborough, as I hate 
secrets in such matters. And if it is to 
be so, then I shall claim the privilege of 
going to Fawn Court as soon and as often 
as I please. 

“ Yours ever and always, if you will 
have me, 

“ F. G.” 

He sat for an hour at his desk, with his 
letter lying on the table, before he left his 
chambers, looking at it. If he should de- 
cide on posting it, then would that life in 
Belgravia-cum-Pimlico, of which in truth 
he was very fond, be almost closed for 
him. The lords and countesses, and rich 
county members, and leading politicians, 
who were delighted to welcome him, 
5 


would not care for his wife ; nor could he 
very well take his wife among them. To 
live with them as a married man, he must 
live as they lived, and must have his own 
house in their precincts. Later in life, he 
might possibly work up to this ; but for 
the present he must retire into dim do- 
mestic security and the neighborhood of 
Regent’s Park. He sat looking at the 
letter, telling himself that he was now, at 
this moment, deciding his own fate in life. 
And he again muttered the Quaker’s ad- 
vice, “ Doan’t thou marry for munny, but 
goa where munny is ! ” It may be said, 
however, that no man ever writes such a 
letter, and then omits to send it. He 
walked out of the Temple with it in his 
hand, and dropped it into a pillar letter- 
box just outside the gate. As the enve- 
lope slipped through his fingers, he felt 
that he had now bound himself to his fate. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“don’t thou marry for munny.” 

As that Saturday afternoon wore itself 
away, there was much excitement at 
Fawn Court. When Lady Fawn returned 
with the carriage, she heard that Frank 
Greystock had been at Fawn Court ; and 
she heard also, from Augusta, that he had 
been rambling about the grounds alone 
with Lucy Morris. At any exhibition of 
old ladies, held before a competent jury, 
Lady Fawn would have taken a prize on 
the score of good-humor. No mother of 
daughters was ever less addicted to scold 
and to be fretful. But just now she was 
a little unhappy. Lizzie’s visit had not 
been a success, and she looked forward to 
her son’s marriage with almost unmixed 
dismay. Mrs. Hittaway had written daily, 
and in all Mrs. Hittaway ’s letters some 
addition was made to the evil things al- 
ready known. In her last letter Mrs. 
Hittaway had expressed her opinion that 
even yet “ Frederic ” would escape All 
this Lady Fawn had, of course, not told 
to her daughters generally. To the eld- 
est, Augusta, it was thought expedient to 
say nothing, because Augusta had been 
selected as the companion of the, alas, too 
probable future Lady Fawn. But to 
Amelia something did leak out, and it be- 
came apparent that the household was un- 
easy. Now, as an evil added to this, 
Frank Greystock had been there in Lady 


66 


THE EUSTACE DIAjMONDS. 


Fawn’s absence, walking about the 
grounds alone with Lucy Morris. Lady 
Fawn could hardly restrain herself. ‘ ‘ How 
could Lucy be so very wrong? ” she said, 
in the hearing both of Augusta and 
Amelia. 

Lizzie Eustace did not hear this ; but 
knowing very well that a governess should 
not receive a lover in the absence of the 
lady of the house, she made her little 
speech about it. “ Dear Lady Fawn,” she 
said, “ my cousin Frank came to see me 
while you were out.” 

“ So I hear,” said Lady Fawn.. 

“ Frank and I are more like brother 
and sister than anything else. I had so 
much to say to him ; so much to ask him 
to do ! I have no one else, you know, 
and I had especially told him to come 
here.” 

“ Of course he was welcome to come.” 

“ Only I was afraid you might think 
that there was some little lover’s trick — 
on dear Lucy’s part, you know.” 

“ Ineversuspectanythingof that kind,” 
said Lady Fawn, bridling up. “ Lucy 
Morris is above any sort of trick. We 
don’t have any tricks here. Lady Eus- 
tace.” Lady Fawn herself might say 
that Lucy was “ wrong,” but no one else 
in that house should even suggest evil of 
Lucy. Lizzie retreated smiling. To have 
“put Lady Fawn’s back up,” as she 
called it, was to her an achievement and a 
pleasure. 

But the great excitement of the evening 
consisted in the expected coming of Lord 
Fawn. Of what nature would be the 
meeting between Lord Fawn and hie 
promised bride? Was there anything of 
truth in the opinion expressed by Mrs. 
Hittaway that her brother was beginning 
to become tired of his bargain? That 
Lady Fawn was tired of it herself— that 
she disliked Lizzie, and was afraid of her, 
and averse to the idea of regarding her as 
a daughter-in-law — she did not now at- 
tempt to hide from herself. But there 
was the engagement, known to all the 
world, and how could its fulfilment now 
be avoided? The poor dear old woman 
began to repeat to herself the first half of 
the Quaker’s advice, “ Doan’t thou marry 
for munny.” 

Lord Fawn was to come down only in 
time for a late dinner. An ardent lover, 
one would have thought, might have left 
his work somewhat earlier on a Saturday, 


so as to have enjoyed with his sweetheart 
something of the sweetness of the Satur- 
day summer afternoon ; but it was seven 
before he reached Fawn Court, and the 
ladies were at that time in their rooms 
dressing. Lizzie had affected to under- 
stand all his reasons for being so late, and 
had expressed herself as perfectly satisfied. 
“ He has more to do than any of the 
others,” she had said to Augusta. “ In- 
deed the whole of our vast Indian empire 
may be said to hang upon him just at 
present ; ” which was not complimentary 
to Lord Fawn’s chief, the Right Honorable 
Legge Wilson, who at the present time 
represented the interests of India in the 
Cabinet. “He is terribly overworked, 
and it is a shame ; but what can one do ? ” 

.“I think he likes work,” Augusta had 
replied. 

“ But I don’t like it, not so much of it ; 
and so I shall make him understand, my 
dear. But I don’t complain. As long as 
he tells me everything, I will never really 
complain.” Perhaps it might some day 
be as she desired ; perhaps as a husband 
he would be thoroughly confidential and 
communicative ; perhaps when they two 
were one flesh he would tell her every- 
thing about India ; but as yet he certainly 
had not told her much. 

“ How had they better meet? ” Amelia 
asked her mother. 

“ Oh, I don’t know; anyhow; just as 
they like. We can’t arrange anything 
for her. If she had chosen to dress her- 
self early, she might have seen him as he 
came in ; but it was impossible to tell her 
so.” No arrangement was therefore 
made, and as all the other ladies were in 
the drawing-room before Lizzie came 
down, she had to give him his welcome in 
the midst of the family circle. She did it 
very well. Perhaps she had thought of it, 
and made her arrangements. When he 
came forward to greet her, she put her 
cheek up, just a little, so that he might 
see that he was expected to kiss it ; but so 
little, that should he omit to do so, there 
might be no visible awkwardness. It 
must be acknowledged on Lizzie’s behalf, 
that she could always avoid awkwardness. 
He did touch her cheek with his lips, 
blushing as he did so. She had her un- 
gloved hand in hl^, and, still holding him, 
returned into the circle. She said not a 
word ; and what he said was of no mo- 
ment ; but they had met as lovere, and 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


67 


any of the family who had allowed them- 
selves to imagine that even yet the match 
might be broken, now unconsciously aban- 
doned that hope. “ Was he always such 
a truant, Lady Fawn?” Lizzie asked, 
when it seemed to her that no one else 
would speak a word. 

“ I don’t know that there is much dif- 
ference,’ ’ said Lady Fawn . ‘ ‘ Here is din- 
ner. Fr^eric, will you give — Lady Eus- 
tace your arm? ” Poor Lady Fawn ! It 
often came to pass that she was awkward. 

There were no less than ten females sit- 
ting round the board at the bottom of 
which Lord Fawn took his place. Lady 
Fawn had especially asked Lucy to come 
in to dinner, and with Lucy had come the 
two 5 ’ounger girls. At Lord Fawn’s right 
hand sat Lizzie, and Augusta at his left. 
Lady Fawn had Amelia on one side and 
Lucy on the other. “ So Mr. Greystock 
was here to-day,” Lady Fawn whispered 
into Lucy’s ear. 

“Yes; he was here.” 

“Oh, Lucy.” 

“ I did not bid him come. Lady Fawn.” 

“ I am sure of that, my dear ; but — 

but ” Then there was no more said 

on that subject on that occasion. 

During the whole of the dinner the con- 
versation was kept up at the other end of 
the table by Lizzie talking to Augusta 
across her lover. This was done in such 
a manner as to seem to include Lord Fawn 
in every topic discussed. Parliament, In- 
dia, the Sawnb, Ireland, the special priv- 
ileges of the House of Lords, the ease of a 
bachelor life, and the delight of having at 
his elbow just such a rural retreat as 
Fawn Court — these were the fruitful 
themes of Lizzie’s eloquence. Augusta 
did her part at any rate with patience ; 
and as for Lizzie herself, she worked with 
that superhuman energy which women 
can so often display in making conversa- 
tion under unfavorable circumstances. The 
circumstances were unfavorable, for Lord 
Fawn himself would hardly open his 
mouth; but Lizzie persevered, and the 
hour of dinner passed over without any 
show of ill-humor or of sullen silence. 
\7hen the hour was over Lord Fawn left 
the room with the ladies, and was soon 
closeted with his mother, while the girls 
strolled out upon the lawn. Would Liz- 
zie play croquet? No; Lizzie would not 
play croquet. She thought it probable 
that she might catch her lover and force 


him to walk with her through the shrub- 
beries ; but Lord Fawn was not seen upon 
the lawn that evening, and Lizzie was 
forced to content herself with Augusta as 
a companion. In the course of the even- 
ing, however, her lover did say a word to 
her in private. “ Give me ten minutes 
to-morrow between breakfast and church, 
Lizzie.” Lizzie promised that she would 
do so, smiling sweetly. Then there was a 
little music, and then Lord Fawn retired 
to his studies. 

“What is he going to say to me?” 
Lizzie asked Augusta the next morning. 
There existed in her bosom a sort of crav- 
ing after confidential friendship, but with 
it there existed something that was alto- 
gether incompatible with confidence. She 
thoroughly despised Augusta Fawn, and 
yet would have been willing — in want of 
a better friend — to press Augusta to her 
bosom and swear that there should ever 
be between them the tenderest friendship. 
She desired to be the possessor of the out- 
ward shows of all those things of which 
the inward facts are valued by the good 
and steadfast ones of the earth. She 
knew what were the aspirations, what the 
ambition of an honest woman; and she 
knew, too, how rich were the probable re- 
wards of such honesty. True love, true 
friendship, true benevolence, true tender- 
ness, were beautiful to her, qualities on 
which she could descant almost with elo- 
quence ; and therefore she was always 
shamming love and friendship and benev- 
olence and tenderness. She could tell you , 
with words most appropriate to the sub- 
ject, how horrible were all shams, and in 
saying so would be riot altogether insin- 
cere. Yet she knew that she herself was 
ever shamming, and she satisfied herself 
with shams. “ What is he going to say 
to me?” she asked Augusta, with her 
hands clasped, when she went up to put 
her bonnet on after breakfast. 

“ To fix the day, I suppose,” said Au- 
gusta. 

“ If I thought so, I would endeavor to 
please him. But it isn’t that. I know 
his manner so well! I am sure it is not 
that. Perhaps it is something about my 
boy. He will not wish to separate a 
mother from her child.” 

“ Oh dear, no,” said Augusta. “ I am 
sure Frederic will not want to do that.” 

“In any tiling else I will obey him,” 
said Lizzie, again clasping her hands. 


C8 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ But I must not keep him waiting, must 
I ? I fear my future lord is somewhat im- 
patient.” Now, if among Lord Fawn’s 
merits one merit was more conspicuous 
than another, it was that of patience. 
When Lizzie descended he was waiting 
for her in the hall without a thought that 
he was being kept too long. “ Now, 
Frederic ! I should have been with you 
two whole minutes since, if I had not had 
just a word to say to Augusta. I do so 
love Augusta.” 

“She is a very good girl,” said Lord 
Fawn. 

“ So true and genuine, and so full of 
spirit. I will come on the other side be- 
cause of my parasol and the sun. There, 
that will do. We have an hour nearly 
before going to church; haven’t we? I 
suppose you will go to church.” 

“ I intend it,” said Lord Fawn. 

“It is so nice to go to church,” said 
Lizzie. Since her widowhood had com- 
menced she had compromised matters with 
the world. One Sunday she would go to 
church and the next she would have a 
headache and a French novel and stay in 
bed. But she was prepared for stricter 
conduct during at least the first months of 
her newly-married life. 

“My dear Lizzie,” began Lord Fawn, 
“ since I last saw you I have been twice 
with Mr. Camperdown.” 

“ You are not going to talk about Mr. 
Camperdown to-day? ” 

“Well; yes. I could not do so last 
night, and I shall be back in London either 
to-night or before you are up to-morrow 
morning.” 

“ I hate the very name of Mr. (jamper- 
down,” said Lizzie. 

“lam sorry for that, because I am sure 
you could not find an honester lawyer to 
manage your afiairs for you. He does 
everything for me, and so he did for Sir 
Florian Eustace.” 

“ That is just the reason why I employ 
some one else,” she answered. 

“ Very well. I am not going to say a 
word about that. I may regret it, but I 
am, just at present, the last person in the 
world to urge you upon that subject. 
What I want to say is this. You must 
restore those diamonds.” 

“ To whom shall I restore them? ” 

“ To Mr. Garnett the silversmith, if you 
please, or to ]Mr. Camperdown ; or, if you 
like it better, to your brother-in-law, Mr. 
John Eustace.” 


“ And why am I to give up my own 
property ?” 

Lord Fawn paused for some seconds be- 
fore he replied. “ To satisfy my honor,” 
he then said. As she made him no imme- 
diate answer he continued. “ It would 
not suit my views that my wife should be 
seen wearing the jewels of the Eustace 
family.” 

“ I don’t want to wear them,” said Lizzie. 

“ Then why should you desire to keep 
them?” 

“Because they are my own. Because 
I do not choose to be put upon. Because 
I will not allow such a cunning old snake 
as Mr. Camperdown to rob me of my 
property. They are my own, and you 
should defend my right to them.” 

“ Do you mean to say that you will not 
oblige me by. doing what I ask you? ” 

“ I will not be robbed of what is my 
own,” said Lizzie 

“ Then I must declare ” — ^and now Lord 
Fawn spoke very slowly — “ then I must 
declare that under these circumstances, 
let the consequences be what they may, 1 
must retreat from the enviable position 
which your favor has given me.” The 
words were cold and solemn, and were ill- 
spoken ; but they were deliberate, and had 
been indeed actually learned by heart. 

“What do you mean?” said Lizzie, 
flashing round upon him 

“ I mean what I say, exactly. But per- 
haps it may be well that I should explain 
my motives more clearly.” 

“ I don’t know anything about motives, 
and I don’t care anything about motives. 
Do you mean to tell me that you have 
come here to threaten me with deserting 
me? ” 

“ You had better hear me.” 

“I don’t choose to hear a word more af- 
ter what you have said, unless it be in the 
way of an apology, or retracting your 
most injurious accusation.” 

“ I have said nothing to retract,” said 
Lord Fawn solemnly. 

“Then I will not hear another word 
from you. I have friends and you shall 
see them.” 

Lord Fawn, who had thought a great 
deal upon the subject, and had well un- 
derstood that this interview would be for 
him one of great difficulty, was very anx- 
ious to induce her to listen to a few fur- 
ther words of explanation. “ Dear Liz- 
zie,” he began. 

“ I will not be addressed, sir, in that 


THE EUSTACE DIAISIONDS. 


69 


way by a man who is treating me as you 
are doing,” she said. 

‘‘ But I want you to understand me.” 

“Understand you! .You understand 
nothing yourself that a man ought to un- 
derstand. I wonder that you have the 
courage to be so insolent. If you knew 
what you were doing, you would not have 
the spirit to do it.” 

Her words did not quite come home to 
him, and much of her scorn was lost upon 
him. He was now chiefly anxious to ex- 
plain to her that though he must abide by 
the threat he had made, he -was quite 
willing to go on with his engagement if 
she would oblige him in the matter of the 
diamonds. “It was necessary that I 
should explain to you that I could not al- 
low that necklace to be brought into my 
house.” 

“ No one thought of taking it to your 
house.” 

“ What were you to do with it, then? ” 

“Keep it in my own,” said Lizzie 
stoutly. They were still walking togeth- 
er, and were now altogether out of sight 
of the house. Lizzie in her excitement 
had forgotten church, had forgotten the 
Fawn women — had forgotten everything 
except the battle which it was necessary 
that she should fight for herself. She did 
not mean to allow the marriage to be 
broken ofl", but she meant to retain the 
necklace. The manner in which Lord 
Fawn had demanded its restitution — in 
which there had been none of that mock 
tenderness by which she might have per- 
mitted herself to be persuaded — had made 
her, at any rate for the moment, as firm 
as steel on this point. It was inconceiva- 
ble to her that he should think himself at 
liberty to go back from his promise be- 
cause she would not render up property 
which was in her possession, and which 
no one could prove not to be legally her 
own I She walked on full of fierce cour- 
age, despising him, but determined that 
she would marry him. 

“lam afraid we do not understand each 
other,” he said at last. 

‘ ‘ Certainly I do not understand you , sir.” 

“Will you allow my mother to speak to 
you on the subject? ” 

“ No. If I told your mother to give 
up her diamonds, what would she say ? ” 

“ But they are not yours. Lady Eustace, 
unless you will submit that question to 
an arbitrator.” 


“ I will submit nothing to anybody. 
You have no right to speak on such a sub- 
ject till after we are married.” 

“ I must have it settled first. Lady Eus- 
tace.” 

“ Then, Lord Fawn, you won’t have it 
settled first. Or rather it is settled al- 
ready. I shall keep my own necklace, and 
^Ir. Camperdown may do anything he 
pleases. As for you, if you ill-treat me, 
I shall know where to go to.” 

They had now come out from the shrub- 
bery upon the lawn, and there was the car- 
riage at the door, ready to take the elders 
of the family to church. Of course in such 
a condition of afiairs it would be under- 
stood that Lizzie was one of the elders. 

“ I shall not go to church now,” she 
said, as she advanced across the lawn to- 
ward the hall door. ‘ ‘ You will be pleased. 
Lord Fawn, to let your mother know that 
I am detaine’d. I do not suppose that you 
will dare to tell her why.” Then she 
sailed round at the back of the carriage 
and entered the hall, in which several of 
the girls were standing. Among them 
was Augusta, waiting to take her seat 
among the elders ; but Lizzie passed on 
through them all, without a word, and 
marched up to her bed-room. 

“ Oh, Frederic, what is the matter? ” 
said Augusta, as soon as her brother en- 
tered the house. ^ 

“ Never mind. Nothing is the matter. 
'You had better go to church. - Where !■ 
my mother ? ” 

At this moment Lady Fawn* appeared 
at the bottom of the stairs, having passed 
Lizzie as she was coming down. Not a 
syllable had then been spoken, but Lady 
Fawn at once knew that much was wrong. 
Her son went up to her and whispered a 
word in her ear. “ Oh, certainly,” she 
said, desisting from the operation of pull- 
ing on her gloves. “Augusta, neither 
your brother nor I will go to church.” 

“ Nor — Lady Eustace? ” 

“ It seems not,” said Lady Fawn. 

“ Lady Eustace will not go to church,” 
said Lord Fawn. 

“And where is Lucy? ” asked Lydia. 

“ She will not go to church either,” 
said Lady Fawn. “ I have just been with 
her.” 

“Nobody is going to church,” said 
Nina. “ All the same, I shall go mj^- 
self.” 

“ Augusta, my dear, you and the girki 


70 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


had better go. You can take the carriage 
of course.” But Augusta and the girls 
chose to walk, and the carriage was sent 
round into the yard. 

“ There’s a rumpus already between my 
lord and the j'oung missus,” said the 
coachman to the groom ; for the coachman 
had seen the way in which Lady Eustace 
had returned to the house. And there 
certainly was a rumpus. During the 
whole njorniug Lord Fawn was closeted 
with his mother, and then he went away 
to London without saying a word to any 
one of the family. But he left this note 
for Lady Eustace : 

Dearest Lizzie: 

Think well of what I have said to 
you. It is not that I desire to break ofl' 
our engagement ; but that I cannot allow 
my wife to keep the diamonds which be- 
long of right to her late husband’s family. 
You may be sure that I should not be thus 
urgent had I not taken steps to ascer- 
tain that I am right in my judgment. In 
the mean time you had better consult my 
mother.* 

“ Yours affectionately, 

. “Fawn.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

“i’ll give you a HUNDRED-GUOEA 
BROOCH.” 

There had been another “affair ” in the 
house that morning, though of a nature 
very different to the “rumpus” which 
had occurred between Lord Fawn and 
Lady Eustace. Lady Fawn had been 
closeted with Lucy, and had expressed 
her opinion of the impropriety of Frank 
Greystock’s visit. “ I suppose he came 
to see his cousin,” said Lady Fawn, anx- 
ious to begin with some apology for such 
conduct. 

“ I cannot tell,” said Lucy. “ Perhaps 
he did. I think he said so. I think he 
cared more to see me. ” Then Lady Fawn 
was obliged to express her opinion, and she 
did so, uttering many words of wisdom. 
Frank Greystock, had he intended to sac- 
rifice his prospects by a disinterested mar- 
riage, would have spoken out before now. 
He was old enough to have made up his 
mind on such a subject, and he had not 
spoken out. He did not mean marriage. 
That was quite evident to Lady Fawn ; 


and her dear Lucy was revelling in hopes 
which would make her miserable. If 
Lucy could only have known of the letter, 
which was already her own property 
though lying in the pillar letter-box in 
Fleet street, and which had not already 
been sent down and delivered simply be- 
cause it was Sunday morning ! But she 
was very brave. “ He does love me,” she 
said. “ He told me so.” 

“ Oh, Lucy, that is worse and worse. 
A man to tell you that he loves you, and 
yet not ask you to be his wife ! ” 

“I am .contented,” said Lucy. That 
assertion, however, could hardly have been 
true. 

“ Contented ! And did you tell him 
that you returned his love? ” 

“ He knew it without my telling him,” 
said Lucy. It was so hard upon her that 
she should be so interrogated while that 
letter was lying in the iron box ! 

“Dear Lucy, this must not be,” said 
Lady Fawn. “ You are preparing for 
yourself inexpressible misery.” 

“ I have done nothing wrong. Lady 
Fawn.” 

“No, my dear — no. I do not say you 
have been wrong. But I think he is 
wrong — so wrong ! I call it wicked. I 
do indeed. For your own sake you should 
endeavor to forget him.” 

“ I will never forget him,” said Lucy. 
“To think of him is everything to me. 
He told me I was his Queen, and he shall 
be my King. I will be loyal to him al- 
ways.” To poor Lady Fawn this was 
very dreadful. The girl persisted in declar- 
ing her love for the man, and yet did not 
even pretend to think that the man meant 
to marry her ! And this, too, was Lucy 
IMorris — of whom Lady Fawn was accus- 
tomed to say to her intimate friends that 
she had altogether ceased to look upon her 
as a governess. “Just one of ourselves, 
Mrs. Winslow, and almost as dear as one 
of my own girls ! ” Thus, in the warmth 
of her heart, she had described Lucy to a 
neighbor within the last week. Many 
more words of wisdom she spoke, and then 
she left poor Lucy in no mood for church. 
Would she have been in a better mood for 
the morning service had she known of the 
letter in the iron post ? 

Then Lady Fawn had put on her bonnet 
and gone doAvn into the hall, and the 
“ rumpus ” had come. After that, every- 
body in the house knew that all things 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


71 


were astray. When the girls came home j 
from church their brother was gone. 
Half an hour before dinner Lady Fawm 
sent the note up to Lizzie, with a message 
to say that they would dine at three — it 
being Sunday. Lizzie sent down word 
that as she was uiiAvell she Avould ask to 
have just a cup of tea and “ something ” 
sent to her own room. If Lady Fawn 
would allow her, she would remain up 
stairs with her child. She always made 
use of her child when troubles came. 

The afternoon was very sad and dreary. 
Lady Fawn had an interview with Lady 
Eustace, but Lizzie altogether refused to 
listen to any advice on the subject of the 
necklace. “ It is an affair,” she said 
haughtily, “ in which I must judge for 
myself — or with the advice of my own par- 
ticular friends. Had Lord Fawn waited 
until we were married ; then indeed ! ” 

“But that would have been too late,” 
said Lady Fawn severely. 

“He is at any rate premature now in 
laying his commands upon me,” said Liz- 
zie. Lady Fawn, who was perhaps more 
anxious that the marriage should be 
broken off than that the jewels should be 
restored, then withdrew ; and as she left 
the room Lizzie clasped her boy to her bo- 
som. “ He, at any rate, is left to me,” 
she said. Lucy and the Fawn girls went 
to evening church, and afterward Lizzie 
came down among them when they were 
at tea. Before she went to bed Lizzie de- 
clared her intention of returning to her 
own house in Mount street on the folloAV- 
ing day. To this Lady Fawn of course 
made no objection. 

On the next morning there came an 
event which robbed Lizzie’s departure of 
some of the importance which might 
otherwise have been attached to it. The 
post-office, with that accuracy in the per- 
formance of its duties for which it is con- 
spicuous among all offices, caused Lucy’s 
letter to be delivered to her while the 
members of the family were sitting round 
the breakfast table. Lizzie, indeed, was 
not there. She had expressed her inten- 
tion of breakfasting in her own room, and 
had requested that a conA’eyance might 
be ready to take her to the 11:30 train. 
Augusta had been with her, asking 
whether anything could be done for her. 
“I care for nothing now, except my 
child,” Lizzie had replied. xVs the nurse 
and the lady’s maid were both in the 


room, Augusta, of couree, could say noth- 
ing further. That occurred after prayers 
and while the tea was being made. When 
xiugusta feached the breakfast-room Lucy 
was cutting up the loaf of bread, and at 
the same moment the old butler was plac- 
ing a letter immediately under her eyes. 
She saw the handwriting and recognized 
it, but yet she finished cutting the bread. 
“ Lucy, do give me that hunchy bit,” said 
Nina. 

“ Ilunchy is not in the dictionary,” said 
Cecilia. 

“ I want it in ray plate, and not in the 
dictionary,” said Nina. 

Lucy did as she Avas asked, but her hand 
trembled as she gave the hunch, and La- 
dy Fawn saw that her face was crimson. 
She took the letter and broke the envelope, 
and as she drew out the sheet of paper 
she looked up at Lady FaAvn. The fate of 
her whole life was in her hands, and there 
she was standing Avith all their eyes fixed 
upon her. She did not even know how to 
sit down, but, still standing, she read the 
first words, and at the last, “ Dear, dear 
Lucy,” — “ Yours ever and always, if you 
will haA’e me, F. G.” She did not want 
to read any more of it then. She sat 
down slowly, put the precious paper back 
into its envelope, looked round upon them 
all, and knew that she was crimson to the 
roots of her hair, blushing like a guilty 
thing. 

“ Lucy, my dear,” said Lady Fawn — 
and Lucy at once turned her face full upon 
her old friend — “you have got a letter 
that agitates you.” 

“ Yes, I ha\e,” she said. 

“ Go into the book-room. You can 
come back to breakfast when you have 
read it, you know.” Thereupon Lucy 
rose from her seat, and retired with her 
treasure into the book-room. But even 
when she was there she could not at once 
read her letter. When the door was 
closed and she knew that she was alone 
she looked at it, and then clasped it tight 
betAveen her hands. She was almost afraid 
to read it lest the letter itself should con- 
tradict the promise which the last words 
of it had seemed to convey to her. She 
went up to the window and stood there 
gazing out upon the gravel road, with her 
hand containing the letter pressed upon 
her heart. Lady Fawn had told her that , 
she was preparing for herself inexpressi- 
ble misery ; and now there had come to 


72 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


her joy so absolutely inexpressible ! “A 
man to tell you that he loves you, and yet 
not ask you to be his wife!” She re- 
peated to herself Lady Fawn’s words, and 
then those other words, “ Yours ever and 
always, if you will have me!” Have 
him, indeed ! She threw from her, at 
once, as vain and wicked and false, all 
idea of coying her love. She would leap 
at his neck if he were there, and tell him 
that for years he had been almost her 
god. And of course he knew it. “ If 1 
will have him! Traitor! ” she said to 
herself, smiling through her tears. Then 
she reflected that after all it would be 
well that she should read the letter. 
There might be conditions ; though what 
conditions could he propose with which 
she would not comply? However, she 
seated herself in a corner of the room and 
did read the letter. As she read it, she 
hardly understood it all ; but she under- 
stood what she wanted to understand. 
He asked her to share with him his home. 
He had spoken to her that day without 
forethought ; but mustn’t such speech 
be the truest and the sweetest of all 
speeches? “And now I write to you 
to ask you to be my wife.” Oh, how 
wrong some people can be ia their judg- 
ments ! How wrong Lady Fawn had 
been in hers about Frank Greystock! 
“ For the last year or two I have lived with 
this hope before me.” “ And so have I,” 
said Lucy. “ And so have I ; with that 
and no other.” “ Too great confidence ! 
Traitor,” she/ said again, smiling and 
weei^ing, “yes, traitor; when of course 
you knew it.” “Is his happiness in my 
hands? Oh, then he shall be happy.” 
“ Of course I will tell Lady Fawn at 
once — instantly. Dear Lady Fawn ! 
But yet she has been so wrong. I sup- 
pose she will let him come here. But 
what does it matter, now that I know it ? 
‘ Yours ever and always, if you will have 
me. F. G.’ Traitor, traitor, traitor ! ” 
Then she got up and walked about the 
room, not knowing what she did, holding 
the letter now between her hands, and 
then pressing it to her lips. 

She was still walking about the room 
when there came a low tap at the door, 
and Lady Fawn entered. “ There is noth- 
ing the matter, Lucy?” Lucy stood 
stock still, with her treasure still clasped, 
smiling, almost laughing, while the tears 
ran down her cheeks. “Won’t you eat 


your breakfast, my dear?” said Lady 
Fawn. 

“Oh, Lady Fawn ! oh, Lady Fawn ! ” 
said Lucy, rushing into her friend’s arms. 

“ What is it, Lucy? I think our little 
wise one has lost her wits.” 

“ Oh, Lady Fawn, he has asked me ! ” 

“ Is it Mr. Greystock? ” 

“Yes; Mr. Greystock. He has asked 
me. He has asked me to be his wife. I 
thought he loved me. I hoped he did at 
least. Oh, dear, I- did so hope it. And 
he does.” 

“ Has he proposed to you? ” 

“ Yes, Lady Fawn. I told you what he 
said to me. And then he went and wrote 
this. Is he not noble and good, and so 
kind? You shall read it, but you’ll give 
it me back. Lady Fawn? ” 

“ Certainly I’ll give it you back. You 
don’t think I’d rob you of your lover’s 
letter? ” 

“ Perhaps you might thinkdt right.” 

“ If it is really an offer of marriage , ’ ’ 

said Lady Fawn very seriously. 

“ It couldn’t be more of an ofler if he 
had sat writing it for ever,” said Lucy as 
she gave up her letter with confidence. 
Lady Fawn read it with leisurely atten- 
tion, and smiled as she put the paper 
back into the envelope. “ All the men in 
the world couldn’t say it more plainly,” 
said Lucy, nodding her head forward. 

“ I don’t think they could,” said Lady 
Fawn. “ I never read anything i^lainer 
in my life. I wish you joy with all my 
heart, Lucy. There is not a word to be 
said against him.” 

“ Against him ! ” said Lucy, who thought 
that this was very insufficient praise. 

“ What I mean is that when I objected 
to his coming here I was only afraid that 
he couldn’t afford, or would think, you 
know, that in his position he couldn’t af- 
ford to marry a wife without a fortune.” 

“ He may come now. Lady Fawn? ” 

“ Well, yes; I think so. I shall be 
glad just to say a word to him. Of course 
you are in my hands, and I do love you so 
dearly, Lucy ! I could not bear that any- 
thing but good should happen to you.” 

“ This is good,” said Lucy. 

“ It won’t be good, and Mr. Greystock 
won’t think you good, if you don’t come 
and eat your breakfast.” So Lucy was 
led back into the parlor, and sipped her 
tea and crunched her toast, while Lydia 
came and stood over her. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


73 


“ Of course it is from him,” whispered 
Lydia. Lucy again nodded her head 
while she was crunching her toast. 

The fact that Mr. Greystock had pro- 
posed in form to Lucy Morris was soon 
known to all the family, and the news 
certainly did take away something from 
the importance which would otherwise 
have been attached to Lizzie’s departure. 
There was not the same awe of the cere- 
mony, the same dread of some scene, 
which, but for Frank Greystock’s letter, 
would have existed. Of course Lord 
Fawn’s future matrimonial jDrospects were 
to them all an affair of more moment than 
those of Lucy ; but Lord Fawn himself 
had gone, and had already quarrelled with 
the lady before he went. There was at 
present nothing more to be done by them 
in regard to Lizzie than just to get rid of 
her. But Lucy’s good fortune, so unex- 
pected, and by her so frankly owned as 
the very best fortune in the world that 
could have befallen her, gave an excite- 
ment to them all. There could be no les- 
sons that morning for Nina, and the usual 
studies of the family were altogether in- 
terrupted. Lady Fawn purred, and con- 
gratulated, and gave good advice, and de- 
clared that any other home for Lucy be- 
fore her marriage would now be quite out 
of the question. “ Of course it wouldn’t 
do for you to go, even to Clara,” said 
Lady Fawn, who seemed to think that 
there still might be some delay before 
Frank Greystock would be ready for his 
wife. “ You know, my dear, that he 
isn’t rich ; not for a member of Parlia- 
ment. I suppose he makes a good in- 
come, but I have always heard that he was 
a little backward when he began. Of 
course, you know, nobody need be in a 
hurry.” Then Lucy began to think that 
if Frank should wish to postpone his mar- 
riage, say for three or four years, she 
might even yet become a burden on her 
friend. “ But don’t you be frightened,” 
continued Lady Fawn ; “ you shall never 
want a home as long as I have one to give 
you. We shall soon find out what are 
Mr. Greystock’s ideas ; and unless he is 
very unreasonable we’ll make things fit.’’ 

Then there came a message to Lucy 
from Lady Eustace. “ If you please. 
Miss, Lady Eustace will be glad to see 
you for a minute up in her room before 
she starts.” So Lucy was tom away 
from the thoughts of her own happiness. 


and taken up stairs to Lady Eustace 
“ You have heard that I am going? ” said 
Lizzie. 

“Yes; I heard you were to go this 
morning.” 

“ And jmu have heard why? I’m sure 
you will not deceive me, Lucy. Where 
am I to look for truth, if not to an old, old 
friend like you? ” 

“ Why should I deceive you, Lizzie ? ” 

“Why, indeed? only that all people 
do. The world is so false, so material, so 
worldly ! One gives out one’s heart and 
gets in return nothing but. dust and 
ashes — nothing but ashes and dust. Oh, 
I have been so disappointed in Lady 
Fawn.” 

“You know she is my dearest friend,” 
said Lucy. 

“ Pshaw ! I know that you have work- 
ed for her like a slave, and that she has 
paid you a bare pittance.” 

“She has been more like a mother to 
me than anything else,” said Lucy an- 
grily. 

“ Because you have been tame. It does 
not suit me to be tame. It is not my plan 
to be tame. Have you heard the cause of 
the disagreement between Lord Fa\m and 
me?” 

“ Well— no.” 

“ Tell the truth, Lucy.” 

“ How dare you tell me to tell the 
truth? Of course I tell the truth. I be- 
lieve it is something about some property 
which he wants you to give back to some- 
body ; but I don’t know any more.” 

“Yes, my dear husband. Sir Florian, 
who understood me — whom I idolized — 
— who seemed to have been made for me 
— gave me a present. Lord Fawn is 
pleased to say that he does not approve of 
my keeping any gift from my late lord. 
Considering that he intends to live upon 
the wealth which Sir Florian was gener- 
ous enough to bestow upon me, this does 
seem to be strange ! Of course I resented 
such interference. Would not you have 
resented it? ” 

“I don’t know,” said Lucy, who 
thought that she could bring herself to 
comply with any request made to her by 
Frank Greystock. 

“ Any woman who had a spark of spirit 
would resent it, and I have resented it. I 
have told Lord Fawn that I will on no ac- 
count part with the rich presents which 
my adored Florian showered upon me in 


74 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


his generosity. It is not for their rich- 
ness that I keep them, but because they 
are, for his sake, so inexpressibly dear to 
me. If Lord Fawn chooses to be jealous 
of a necklace, he must be jealous.” Lucy, 
who had in truth heard but a small frag- 
ment of the story— just so much of it as 
Lydia had learned from the discreet Ame- 
lia, who herself had but a very hazy idea 
of the facts — did not quite know how 
much of the tale, as it was now told to her, 
might be true and how much false. After 
a certain fashion she and Lizzie Eustace 
called themselves friends. But she did 
not believe her friend to be honest, and 
was aware that in some matters her friend 
would condescend — to fib. Lizzie’s poet- 
ry, and romance, and high feelings had 
never had the ring of true soundness in 
Lucy’s ears. But her imagination was 
not strong enough to soar to the altitude 
of the lies which Lizzie was now telling. 
She did believe that the property which 
Lizzie was called upon to restore was held 
to be objectionable by Lord Fawm simply 
because it had reached Lizzie from the 
hands of her late husband. “What do 
you think of such conduct as that? ” asked 
Lady Eustace. 

“ Won’t it do if you lock them up in- 
stead of wearing them? ” asked Lucy. 

“ I have never dreamed of wearing them.” 

“ I don’t understand about such things,” 
said Lucy, determined not to impute any 
blame to one of the Fawn family. 

“It is tyranny, sheer tyranny,” con- 
tinued the other, “ and he will find that I 
am not the woman to yield to it. No. 
For love I could give up everything — but 
nothing from fear. He has told me in so 
many words that he does not intend to go 
on with his engagement ! ” 

“ Has he indeed? ” 

But I intend that he shall. If he 
thinks that I am going to be thrown over 
because he takes ideas of that kind into 
his head, he’s mistaken. He shall know 
that I’m not to be made a plaything of 
like that. I’ll tell you what you can do 
for me, Lucy.” 

“ What can I do for you ? ” 

“ There is no one in the world I trust 
more thoroughly than I do you,” said 
Lizzie, “ and hardly any one that I love 
so well. Think how long we have known 
each other ! And you may be sure of 
this : I always have been, and always will 
be, your friend with my cousin Frank.” 


“ I don’t want anything of that kind,’' 
said Lucy, “ and never did.” 

“ Nobody has so much influence with 
Frank as I. Just do you write to me to- 
morrow, and the next day, and the day af- 
ter, a mere line, you know, to tell me how' 
the land lies here.” 

“ There would be nothing to tell.” 

“ Yes, there will — ever so much. They 
will be talking about me every hour. If 
you’ll be true to me, Lucy, in this busi- 
ness, I’ll make you the handsomest pres- 
ent you ever saw in your life. I’ll give 
you a hundred-guinea brooch ; I will, in- 
deed. You shall have the money and buy 
it yourself.” 

“ A what ! ” said Lucy. 

“ A hundred guineas to do what 3 "ou 
please with ! ” 

“Y’’oumean thing!” said Lucy. “I 
didn’t think there was a woman so mean 
as that in the world. I’m not surprised 
now at Lord Fawn. Pick up what I hear 
and send it you in letters, and then be 
paid money for it ! ” 

“Why not? It’s all to do good.” 

“ How can j^ou have thought to ask me 
to do such a thing ? How can you bring 
yourself to think so badly of people? I’d 
sooner cut my hand off; and as for j’ou, 
Lizzie, I think you are mean and wicked 
to conceive such a thing. And now good- 
by.” So saying, she left the room, giving 
her dear friend no time for further argu- 
ment. 

Lady Eustace got away that morning, 
not in time, indeed, for the 11:30 train, 
but at such an hour as to make it unneces- 
sary that she should appear at the early 
dinner. The sajdng of farewell was very 
cold and ceremonious. Of course there 
was no word as to any future visit — no 
word as to any future events whatever. 
They all shook hands with her, and spe- 
cial injunctions were given to the coach- 
man to drive her safely to the station. 
At this ceremony Lucy was not present. 
Lj'dia had asked her to come down and 
sf\y good-by ; but Lucy refused. “ I saw 
her in her own room,” said Lucy. 

“And was it all ver^" afiectionate ? ” 
Lj'dia asked. 

“Well, no; it was not afiectionate at 
all.” This was all that Lucy said, and 
thus Lady Eustace completed her visit to 
Fawn Court. 

The letters were taken away for the post 
at eight o’clock in the evening, and be- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


75 


fore that time it was necassary that Lucy 
should write to her lover. ‘ ‘ Lady Fawn , ’ ’ 
she said in a whisper, “ may I tell him to 
come here? ” 

“ Certainly, my dear. You had better 
tell him to call on me. Of course he’ll 
see you, too, when he comes.” 

“ I think he’d want to see me,” said 
Lucy, “ and I’m sure I should want to see 
liim.” Then she wrote her answer to 
Frank’s letter. She allowed herself an 
hour for the happy task ; but, though the 
letter when written was short, the hour 
hardly sufficed for the writing of it. 

“ Dear Mr. Greystock ; ” — there was 
matter for her of great consideration be- 
fore she could get even so* far as this ; but 
after biting her pen for ten minutes, dur- 
ing which she pictured to herself how 
pleasant it would be to call him Prank 
when he should have told her to do so, 
and had found, upon repeated whispered 
trials, that of all names it was the pleas- 


antest to pronounce, she decided upon re- 
fraining from writing it now — “ Lady 
Fawn has seen your letter to me — the 
dearest letter that ever was written — and 
she saj^s that you may call upon her. But 
you mustn’t go away without seeing me 
too'"’ Then there was great difficulty as 
to the words to be used by her for the ac- 
tual rendering herself up to him as his fu- 
ture wife. At last the somewhat too 
Spartan simplicity of her nature prevail- 
ed, and the words were written very plain ., 
and very short. “ I love you better than 
all the world, and I will be your wife. It 
shall be the happiness of my life to try to 
deserve you. 

“lam, with all my heart, 

“ Most affectionately your own 
“ Lucy.” 

AVhen it was written it did not content 
her. But the hour was over, and the let- 
ters must go. “ I suppose it’ll do,” she 
said to herself. “He’ll know what it 
means.” And so the letter was sent. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

CERTAINLY AN HEIRLOOM. 

T he burden of his position was so heavy 
on Lord Fawn’s mind that, on the 
Monday morning after leaving F awn Court, 
he was hardly as "true to the affairs of 
India as he himself would have wished. He 
was resolved to do what was right — if only 
he could find out what would be the right 
thing in his present difficulty. Not to 
break his word, not to be unjust, not to 
deviate by a hair’s breadth from that line 
of conduct which would be described as 
“ honorable” in the circle to which he be- 
longed ; not to give his political enemies 
an opportunity for calumny — this was all 
in all to him. The young widow was very 
lovely and very rich, and it would have 
suited him well to marry her. It would 
still suit him well to do so, if she would 
make herself amenable to reason and the 
laws. He had assured himself that he 
was very much in love with her, and had 
already, in his imagination, received the 
distinguished heads of his party at Por- 
tray Castle. But he would give all this 
up — love, income, beauty, and castle — 
without a doubt, rather than find himself 
in the mess of having married a wife who 
had stolen a necklace, and who would not 
make restitution. He might marry her, 
and insist on giving it up afterward ; but 
he foresaw terrible difficulties in the way 
of such an arrangement. Lady Eus- 
tace was self-willed, and had already told 
him that she did not intend to keep the 
jewels in his house — but in her own! 
What should he do, so that no human be- 
ing — not the most bigoted Tory that ever 
expressed scorn for a Vfhig lord — should 
be able to say that he had done wrong ? 
He was engaged to the lady, and could 
not simply change his mind and give no 
reason. He believed in Mr. Camperdown ; 
but he could hardly plead that belief, 
should he hereafter be accused of heart- 
less misconduct. For aught he knew Lady 
Eustace might bring an action against him 
for breach of promise; and obtain a ver- 
dict and damages, and annihilate him as 


an Under-Secretary. How should he keep 
his hands quite clean? 

Frank Greystock was, as far as he knew, 
Lizzie’s nearest relative in London. The 
dean was her uncle, but then the dean was 
down at Bobsborough. It might be ne- 
cessary for him to go down to Bobsbo- 
rough ; but in the mean time he would 
see Frank -Greystock. Greystock was as 
bitter a Tory as any in England. Grey- 
stock was the very man who had attacked 
him. Lord Fawn, in the House of Com- 
mons respecting the Sawab — making the 
attack quite personal — and that without 
a shadow 6f a cause ! Within the short 
straight grooves of Lord Fawn’s intellect 
the remembrance of this supposed wrong 
was always running up and dowm, renew- 
ing its own soreness. He regarded Grey- 
stock as an enemy who would lose no op- 
portunity of injuring him. Tn his weak- 
ness and littleness he was quite noable to 
judge of other men by himself. He 
would not go a hair’s breadth astray, if he 
knew it ; but because Greystock had, in 
debate, called him timid and tyrannical, 
he believed that Greystock would stop 
short of nothing that might injur? him. 
And yet he must appeal to Greystock? 
He did appeal, and in answer to his ap- 
peal Frank came to him *at the India 
House. But Frank, before he saw Lord 
Fawn, had, as wns fitting, been with his 
cousin. / 

Nothing was decided at this interview. 
Lord Fawn became more than ever con- 
vinced that the member for Bobsborough 
was his 'determined enemy, and Frank 
was more convinced than ever that Lord 
Fawn’ was an empty, stiff-necked, self- 
sufficient prig. 

Greystock, of course, took his cousin’s 
part. He was there to do so ; and he him- 
self did not really know whether Lizzie 
was or was not entitled to the diamonds. 
The lie which she had first fabricated for 
the benefit of Mr. Benjamin when she had 
the jewels valued, and which she had 
since told with different degrees of pre- 
cision to various people— to Lady Linlith- 
gow, to Mr. Camperdown, to Lucy, and 


' THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


77 


to Lord Fawn — she now repeated with in- 
creased precision to her cousin. Sir Flo- 
rian, in putting the trinket into her hands, 
had explained to her that it was very yal- 
uable, and that she was to regard it as 
her own peculiar property. “If it was 
an heirloom he couldn’t do it,” Frank had 
said, with all the confidence of a practis- 
ing barrister. 

“ He made it over as an heirloom to 
me,” said Lizzie, with plaintive tender- 
ness. 

“ That’s nonsense, dear Lizzie.” Then 
she smiled sweetly on him, and patted 
the back of his hand with hers. She was 
very gentle with him, and bore his as-, 
sumed superiority with pretty meekness. 
“ He could not make it over as an heirloom 
to you. If it was his to give, he could 
give it to you.” 

“ It was his — certainly.” ^ 

“ That is just what I cannot tell as yet, 
and what must be found out. If the dia- 
monds formed part of an heirloom — and 
there is evidence that it is so — you must 
give them up. Sir Floriah Could only give 
away what was his own to give.” 

“ But Lord Fawn had no right to dic- 
tate.” 

“ Certainly not,” said Frank ; and then 
he made a promise, which he knew to be 
rash, that he would stand by his pretty 
cousin in this affair. “ I don’t see why 
you should assume that Lady Eustace is 
keeping property that doesn’t belong to 
her,” he said to Lofd Fawn. 

“ I go by .what Camperdown tells me,” 
said Lord Fawn. 

“Mr. Camperdown is a very excellent 
attorney, and a most respectable* man,” 
said Greystock. “ I have nothing on 
earth to say against ^Mr. Camperdown. 
But Mr. Camperdown isn’t the law and 
the prophets, nor yet can we allow him to 
be judge and jury in such a case as this.” 

“ Surely, Mr. Greystock, you wouldn’t 
wish it to go before a jury.” 

“ You don’t understand me. Lord Fawn. 
If any claim* be really made for these 
jewels by Mr. John Eustace on the part 
of the heir, or on behalf of the estate, a 
statement had better be submitted to 
counsel. The family deeds must be in- 
.spected,and no doubt counsel would agree 
in telling my cousin. Lad}’ Eustace, what 
she should or what she should not do. 
In the mean time, I understand that you 
are engaged to marry her.” 


“ I was engaged to her certainly,” said 
Lord Fawn. 

“ You can hardly mean to assert, my 
lord, that you intend to be untrue to your 
promise, and to throw over your own en- 
gagement because my cousin has expressed 
her wish to retain property which she be- 
lieves to be her own ! ” This was said in 
a tone which made Lord' Fawn surer than 
ever that Greystock was his enemy to the 
knife. Personally, he was not a coward ; 
and he knew enough of the world to be 
quite sure that Greystock would not at- 
tempt any personal encounter. But mor- 
ally, Lord Fawn was a coward, and he did 
fear that the man before him would work 
him some bitter injury. “ You cannot 
mean that,” continued Frank, “ and you 
will probably allow me to assure my cousin 
that she misunderstood you in the mat- 
ter.” 

“I’d sooner see Mr. Camperdown again 
before I say any thing. ” ... ^ 

“ I cannot understand. Lord Fawn, that 
a gentleman should require an attorney to 
tell him what to do in such a case as this.” 
They were standing now, and Lord Fawn’s 
countenance was heavy, troubled, and full 
of doubt. He said nothing, and was pro- 
bably altogether unaware how eloquent 
was his face. “My cousin. Lady Eus- 
tace,” continued Frank, “must not be 
kept in this suspense. I agree on her be- 
half that her title to these trinkets must 
be made the subject of inquiry by persons 
?fcde%nate to forma judgment. Of course, 
I, as her relative, shall take no part in 
that inquiry. .But as her relative, I must 
demand from you an admission that your 
engagement with her cannot in any way 
be allowed to depend on the fate of those 
jewels. She has chosen to accept you as 
her future husband, and I am bound to 
see that she is treated with good faith, 
honor, and fair observance.” 

. Frank made his demand very well, while 
-Lord Fawn was looking like a whipped 
dog. “ Of course,” said his lordship, 
“ all I want is jthat the right thing should 
be done.” 

“ The right thing will be done. My 
cousin wishes to keep nothing that is not 
her own. I may tell her, then, that she 
will receive from you an assurance that 
you have had no intention of departing 
from your word.” After this. Lord Fawn 
made some attempt at a stipulation that 
this assurance to Lizzie was to be founded 


78 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


on the counter-assurance given to him 
that the matter of the diamonds should 
be decided by proper legal authority ; 
but Frank would not submit to this, and 
at last the Under-Secretary yielded. The 
engagement was to remain in force. 
Counsel were to be employed. The two 
lovers were not to see each other just 
at present. And when the matter had 
been decided by the lawyers, Lord Fawn 
was to express his regret for having sus- 
pected his lady-love ! That was the ver- 
bal agreement, according to Frank Grey- 
stock’s view of it. Lord Fawn, no doubt, 
would have declared that he had never 
consented to the latter stipulation. 

About a week after this there was a 
meeting at Mr. Camperdown’s chambers. 
Greystock, as his cousin’s friend, attended 
to hear what Mr. Camperdown had to say 
in the presence of Lord Fawn and John 
Eustace. He, Frank, had in the mean 
time been down to Kichmond, had taken 
Lucy to his arms as his future bride, and 
had been closeted with Lady Fawn. As 
a man who "was doing his duty by Lucy 
Morris, he was welcomed and made much 
of by her ladyship ; but it had been im- 
possible to leave Lizzie’s name altogether 
unmentioned, and Frank had spoken as 
the champion of his cousin. Of course 
there had arisen something of ill-feeling 
between the two. Lady Fawn had taught 
herself to hate Lizzie, and was desirous 
that the match should be over, diamonds 
or no diamonds. She could not quite say 
this to her visitor, but she showed her 
feeling very plainly. Frank was courteous, 
cold, and resolute ii^ presuming, or pre- 
tending to presume, that as a matter of 
course the marriage would take place. 
Lady Fawn intended to be civil, but she 
could not restrain her feeling ; and though 
she did not dare to say that her son would 
have nothing more to do with Lizzie Eus- 
tace, she showed very plainly that she in- 
tended to work with that object. Of 
course the ^two did not part as cordial 
friends, and of course poor Lucy perceived 
that it was so. 

Before the, meeting took place, Mr. 
Camperdown had been at work looking 
over old deeds. It is undoubtedly the 
case that things often become complicated 
which, from the greatness of their im- 
portance, should have been kept clear as 
running water. The diamonds in question 
had been bought with other jewels, by 


Sir Florian’s grandfather, on the occasion 
of his marriage with the daughter of a 
certain duke, on which occasion old family 
jewels, which were said to have been 
heirlooms, were sold or given in exchange 
as part value for those then purchased. 
This grandfather, who had also been Sir 
Florian in his time, had expressly stated 
in his will that these jewels were to be re- 
garded as an heirloom in the family, and 
had as such left them to his eldest son, 
and to that son’s eldest son, should such 
a child be born. His eldest son had 
possessed them, but not that son’s son. 
There was such a Eustace born, but he 
had died before his father. The younger 
son of that old Sir Florian had then suc- 
ceeded as Sir Thomas, and he was the 
father of that Florian who had married 
Lizzie Eustace. That last Sir Florian had 
therefore been the fourth in succession 
from the old Sir Florian by whom the will 
had been made, and who had directed that 
these jewels should be regarded as heir- 
looms in the family. The two intermedi- 
ate baronets had made no allusion to the 
diamonds in any deeds executed by them. 
Indeed, Sir Florian’s father had died with- 
out a will. There were other jewels, 
larger but much less valuable than the 
diamonds, still in the hands of ths Messrs. 
Garnett, as to which no question was 
raised. The late Sir Florian had, by his 
will, left all the property in his house at 
Portray to his widow, ]?ut all property 
elsewhere to his heir. This was what 
Mr. Camperdown had at last learned, but 
he had been forced to admit to himself, 
while learning this, that there was confu- 
sion. 

He was confident enough, however, that 
there was no difiiculty in the matter. The 
Messrs. Garnett were able to say that the 
necklace had been in their keeping, with 
various other jewels still in their posses- 
sion, from the time of the death of the late 
Lady Eustace, up to the marriage of the 
late Sir Florian, her son. They stated the 
date on which the jewels were given up 
to be the 24th of September, which was 
the day after Sir Florian’s return from 
Scotland with his bride. Lizzie’s first 
statement had coincided with this entry in 
the IMessrs. Garnett’s books ; but latterly 
she had asserted that the necklace had 
been given to her in Scotland. "When 
Mr. Camperdown examined the entry him- 
self in the jeweller’s book, he found the 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


79 


figures to be so blotted that they might 
represent either the 4th or 24th Septem- 
ber. Now, the 4th September had been 
the day preceding Sir Florian’s marriage. 
John Eustace only knew that he had seen 
the necklace worn in Scotland by his 
mother. The bishop only knew that he 
had often seen them on the neck of his 
sister-in-law when, as was very often the 
case, she appeared in full-blown society. 
Mr. Camperdown believed that he had 
traced two stories to Lizzie — one, repeated 
more than once, that the diamonds had 
been given to her in London, and a sec- 
ond, made to himself, that they had been 
given to her at Portray. He himself be- 
lieved that they had never been in Scot- 
h\nd since the death of the former Lady 
Eustace ; but he was quite confident that 
he could trust altogether to the disposition 
made of them by the old Sir Florian. 
There could be no doubt as to these being 
the diamonds there described, although 
the setting had been altered. Old Mr. 
Garnett stated that he would swear to 
them if he saw the necklace. 

“You cannot suppose that Lady Eus- 
tace wishes to keep anything that is not 
her own,” said Frank Greystocfc. 

“ Of course not,” said John Eustace. 

“ Nobody imagines it,” said Mr. Cam- 
perdown. Lord Fawn, who felt that he 
ought not to be there, and who did not 
know whether he might with a better 
grace take Lizzie’s part or a part against 
her, said nothing. “But,” continued 
Mr. Camperdown, “ there is luckily no 
doubt as to the facts. The diamonds in 
question formed a part of a set of most 
valuable ornaments settled in the family 
by Sir Florian Eustace in 1799. The deed 
was drawn up by my grandfather, and is 
now here. I do not know how we are to 
have further proof. Will you look at the 
deed, Mr. Greystock, and at the will?” 
Frank suggested that as it might probably 
be expedient to take advice on the subject 
professionally, he had rather not look at 
the deed. Anything which he might say, 
on looking at the document now, could 
have no weight. “ But why should any 
advice be necessary,” said Mr. Camp.er- 
down, “ when the matter is so clear? ” 

“My dear sir,” said Frank, “ my cous- 
in, Lady Eustace, is strong in her con^- 
dence that her late husband intended to 
give them to her as her own, and that he 
would not have done this without the 


power of doing so.” Now Mr. Camper- 
down was quite sure that Lizzie was lying 
in this, and could therefore make no ade- 
quate answer. “Your experience must 
probably have told you,” continued 
Frank, “ that there is considerable diffi- 
culty in dealing with the matter of heir- 
looms.” 

“ I never heard of any such difficulty,” 
said Mr. Camperdown. 

“ People generally understand it all so 
clearly,” said Lord Fawn. 

“ The late Sir Florian does not appear 
to have understood it very clearly,” said. 
Frank. 

“Let her put them into the hands of 
any indifferent person or firm- till the mat- 
ter is decided,” said Mr. Camperdown. 
“ They will be .much safer so than in her 
keeping.” 

“ I think they are quite safe,” said 
Frank. 

And this was all that took place at that 
meeting. As Mr. Camperdown said to 
John Eustace, it was manifest enough 
that she meant “ to hang on to them.” 
“ I only hope Lord Fawn will not be fool 
enough to marry her,” said Mr. Cam- 
perdown. Lord Fawn himself was of the 
same way of thinking ; but then how was 
he to clear his character of the charge 
which would be brought against him ; and 
how was he to stand his ^ground before 
Frank Grej^stock ? 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE DIAMONDS ARE SEEN IN PUBLIC. 

Let it not be supposed that Lady Eus- 
tace during these summer weeks was liv- 
ing the life of a recluse. The London 
season was in its full splendor, and she 
was by no means a recluse. During the 
first year of her widowHbod she had been 
every inch a widow, as far as crape would 
go, and a quiet life either at Bobsborough 
or Portray Castle. During this year her 
child was born, and she was in every way 
thrown upon her good behavior, living 
with bishops’ wives and deans’ daughters. 
Two years of retreat from the world is 
generally thought to be the proper thing 
for a widow. Lizzie had not quite accom- 
plished her two years before she reopened 
the campaign in Mount street with very 
small remnants of weeds, and with her 
crape brought down to a minimum ; but 


80 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


she was young and rich , and the world is 
aware that a woman of twenty-two can 
hardly afford to sacrifice two whole years. 
In the matter of her widowhood Lizzie did 
not encounter Tery much reproach. She 
was not shunned, or so ill spoken of as to 
have a widely-spread bad name among the 
streets and squares in which her carriage- 
wheels rolled. People called her a flirt, 
held up their hands in surprise at Sir Flo- 
rian’s foolish generosity — for the accounts 
of Lizzie’s wealth were greatly exaggerat- 
ed — and said that of course she would 
marry again. 

The general belief which often seizes 
upon the world in regard to some special 
falsehood is very surprising. Everybody 
on a sudden adopts an idea that some par- 
ticular man is over head and ears in debt, 
so that he can hardly leave his house for 
fear of tlie bailiflfe ; or that some ill-fated 
woman is cruelly ill-used by her husband ; 
or that some eldest son has ruined his 
father; whereas the man doesn’t owe a 
shilling, the woman never hears a harsh 
word from her lord, and the eldest son in 
question has never succeeded in obtaining 
a shilling beyond his allowance. One of 
the lies about London this season was 
founded on the extent of Lady Eustace’s 
jointure. Indeed the lie went to state 
that the jointure was more than a joint- 
ure. It was believed that the property 
in Ayrshire was her own, to do what she 
pleased with it. That the property in 
Ayrshire was taken at double its value 
was a matter of course. It had been de- 
clared, at the time of his marriage, that 
Sir Florian had been especially generous 
to his penniless wife, and the generosity 
was magnified in the ordinary way. No 
doubt Lizzie’s own diligence had done 
much to propagate the story as to her 
positive ownership of Portray. Mr. Cam- 
perdown had been^ery busy denying this. 
John Eustace had denied it whenever oc- 
casion offered. The bishop in his quiet 
way had denied it. Lady Linlithgow had 
denied it. But the lie had been set on 
foot and had thriven, and there was hard- 
ly a man about town who didn’t know 
that Lady Eustace had eight or nine thou- 
sand a year, altogether at her own dispo- 
sal, down in Scotland. Of course a 
woman so endowed, so rich, so beautiful, 
so clever, so young, would marry again, 
and would marry well. No doubt, added 
to this there was a feeling that “ Lizzie,” 


as she was not uncommonly called by peo- 
ple who had hardly ever seen her, had 
something amiss with it all. “I don’t 
know where it is she’s lame,” said that 
very clever man Captain Boodle, who had 
lately reappeared among his military 
friends at his club, “ but she don’t go flat 
all round.” 

“ She has the devil of a temper, no 
doubt,” said Lieutenant Griggs. 

“No mouth, I should say,” said Boo- 
dle. It was thus that Lizzie was talked 
about at the clubs ; but she was asked to 
dinners and balls, and gave little dinners 
herself, and to a certain extent was the 
fashion. Everybody had declared that of 
course she would marry again, and now it_ 
was known everywhere that she was en- 
gaged to Lord Fawn. 

“Poor dear Lord Fawn!” said Lady 
Glencora Palliser to her dear friend Ma- 
dame Max Goesler ; “do you remember 
how violently he was in love with Violet 
Effingham two years ago? ” 

“ Two years is a long time, Lady Glen- 
cora; and Violet Effingham has chosen 
another husband.” 

“ But isn’t this a fall for him ? Violet 
was the sweetest girl out, and at one time 
I really thought she meant to take him.” 

“ I thought she meant to take another 
man whom she did not take,” said Mme. 
Goesler, who had her own recollections, 
who was a widow herself, and who, at the 
period to which Lady Glencora was refer- 
ring, had thought that perhaps she might 
cease to be a widow. Not that she had 
ever suggested to herself that Lord Fawn 
might be her second husband. 

“Poor Lord Fawn! ” continued Lady 
Glencora. “ I suppose he is terribly in 
want of money.” 

“ But surely Lady Eustace is very 
pretty.” 

“ Yes ; she is very pretty ; nay more, 
she is quite lovely to look at. And she is 
clever, very. And she is rich, very. 
But ” 

“Well, Lady Glencora. What does 
your ‘ but ’ mean? ” 

“ Who ever explains a ‘ but ’ ? You’re 
a great deal too clever, !Mme. Goesler, to 
want any explanation. And I couldn’t 
explain it. I can only say I’m sorry for 
po«r Lord Fawn, who is a gentleman, but 
will never set the Thames on fire.” 

“ No, indeed. All the same, I like 
Lord Fawn extremely,” said Mme. Goes- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


81 


ler, “ and I think he’s just the man to 
marry Lady Eustace. He’s ahvays at his 
office or at the House.” 

‘ ‘ A man may be a great deal at his 
office, and a great deal more at the House 
than Lord Fawn,” said Lady Glencora 
laughing, “ and yet think about his wife, 
my dear.” For of all men known, no 
man spent more hours at the House or in 
his office than did Lady Glencora ’s hus- 
band, ^Ir. Pallisef, who at this time, and 
had now for more than two years, filled 
the high place of Chancellor of the Ex- 
chequer. 

This conversation took place in Mme. 
Goesler’s little drawing-room in Park 
Lane ; but, three days after this, the same 
two ladies met again at the house then 
occupied by Lady Chiltern in Portman 
Square — Lady Chiltern, with whom, as 
Violet Effingham, poor Lord Fawn had 
been much in love. “ I think it the nic- 
est match in the world for him,” Lady 
Chiltern had said to Mme. Goesler. 

“ But have you heard of the diamonds ? ’’ 
asked Lady Glencora. 

“What diamonds?” “Whose dia- 
monds?” Neither of the others had 
heard of the diamonds, and Lady Glen- 
cora was able to tell her story. Lady 
Eustace had fbund all the family jewels 
belonging to the Eustace family in the 
strong plate room at Portray Castle, and 
had taken possession of them as property 
found in her own house. John Eustace 
and the bishop had combined in demand- 
ing tliem on behalf of the heir, and a law- 
suit had been commenced ! The diamonds 
were the most costly belonging to any 
Commoner in England, and had been 
valued at twenty-four thousand pounds ! 
Lord Fawn had retreated from his engage- 
ment the moment he heard that any doubt 
was thrown on Lady Eustace’s right to 
their possession ! Lady Eustace had de- 
clared her intention of bringing an action 
against Lord Fawm, and had also secreted 
the diamoiKjs ! The reader will be aware 
that this statement was by no means an 
accurate history of the difficulty as far as 
it had as yet progressed. It was, indeed, 
absolutely false in every detail ; but it 
safficed to show that the matter was be- 
coming public. “ You don’t mean to say 
that Lord Fawn is off? ” asked ^Ime. 
Goesler. 

“ I do,” said Lady Glencora. 

“ Poor Lord Fawn ! ” exclaimed Lady 
G 


Chiltern. “ It really seems as though he 
never would be settled.” 

“ I don’t think he has courage enough 
for such conduct as that,” said Mme. 
Goesler. 

“And besides. Lady Eustace’s income 
is quite certain,” said Lady Chiltern, 
“and poor dear Lord Fawn does want 
money so badly.” 

“ But it is very disagi-eeable,” said 
Lady Glencora, “ to believe that your 
wife has got the finest diamonds in Eng- 
land, and then to find that she has only — 
stolen them. I think Lord Fawn is right. 
If a man does marry for monej’-, he should 
have the money. I wonder she ever took 
him. There is no doubt about her beauty, 
and she might have done better.” 

“ I won’t hear Lord Fawn belittled,” 
said Lady Chiltern. 

“Done better!” said Mine. Goesler. 
‘ ‘ How could she have done better ? He 
is a peer, and her son would be a peer. I 
don’t think she could have done better.” 
Lady Glencora in her time had wished to 
marry a man who had sought her for her 
money. Lady Chiltern in her time had 
refused to be Lady Fawn. Mme. Goesler 
in her time had declined to marry an Eng- 
lish peer. There was, therefore, some- 
thing more of interest in the conversation 
to each of them than was quite expressed 
in the words spoken. “ Is she to be at 
your party on Friday, J^ady Glencora? ” 
asked Mme. Goesler. 

“ She has said she would come, and so 
has Lord Fawn ; for that matter. Lord 
Fawn dines with us. She’ll find that out, 
and then she’ll stay away.” 

“ Not she,” said Lady Chiltern. “ She’ll 
come for the sake of the bravado. She’s 
not the woman to show the white feather.” 

“ If he’s ill-using her she’s quite right,” 
said Mme. Goesler. 

“And wear the very diamonds in dis- 
^oute,” said Lady Chiltern. It was thus 
that the matter was discussed among 
ladies in the town. 

“Is FaAvn’s marriage going on?” 
This question was asked of Mr. Legge 
Wilson by Barrington Erie. Mr. Legge 
Wilson was the Secretary of State for 
India, and Barrington Erie was in the 
Government. 

“ Upon my word I don’t know,” said 
Mr. Wilson. “ The work goes on at the 
office ; that’s all I know about Fawn. 
He hasn’t told me of his ma'rriage, and 


62 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


therefore I haven’t spoken to him about 
it ” 

“ He ha,sn’t made it official? ” 

“The papers haven’t come before me 
yet,” said Mr. Wilson. 

“ When they do they’ll be very awk- 
ward papers, as far as I hear,” said Bar- 
rington Erie. “ There is no doubt they 
were engaged, and I believe there is no 
doubt that he has declared off, and refused 
to give any reason.” 

“ 1 suppose the money is not all there,” 
suggested Mr. Wilson. [ 

“ There’s a cxueer story going about as 
to some diamonds. No one knows whom 
they belong to, and they say that Fawn 
has accused her of stealing them. He 
wants to get hold of them, and she won’t 
give them up. I believe the lawyers are 
to have a shy at it. I’m sorry for Fawn. 
It’ll do him a deal of mischief.” 

“ You’ll find he won’t come out much 
amiss,” said Mr. Legge Wilson. “He’s 
as cautious a man as there is in London. 

If there is anything wrong ” 

“ There’s is a great deal wrong,” said 
Barrington Erie. 

“ You’ll find it will be on her side.” 
“And you’ll find also that she’ll con- 
trive that ail the blame shall lie upon 
him. She’s clever enough for anything ! 
Who’s to be the new bishop ? ” 

“ I have not heard Gresham say as yet ; 
Jones, I should think,” said Mr. Wilson. 
“ And Who is Jones? ” 

“ A clergyman, I suppose, of the safe 
sort. I don’t knoAV that anything else is 
necessary.” From which it will be seen 
that Mr. Wilson had his own opinion 
about church matters, and also that peo- 
ple very high up in the world were con- 
cerning themselves about poor Lizzie’s 
affairs. 

Lady Eustace did go to Lady Glencora’s 
evening party, in spite of Mr. Camper- 
down and all her difficulties. Lady Chil- 
tern had been quite right in saying that 
Lizzie was not the woman to show the 
white feather. She went, knowing that she 
would meet Lord Fawn, and she did wear 
the diamonds. It was the first time that 
they had been round her neck since the 
occasion in respect to which Sir Florian 
had placed them in her hands, and it had 
not been without much screwing up of 
her courage that she had resolved to ap- 
pear on this occasion with the much 
talked-of ornament upon, her person. It 


was now something over a fortnight since 
she had parted with Lord Fawn at Fawn 
Court ; and, although they were still pre- 
sumed to be engaged to marry each other, 
and were both living in London, she had 
not seen him since. A sort of message 
had reached her, through Frank Grey- 
stock, to the effect that Lord Fawn thought 
it as well that they should not meet till 
the matter was settled. Stipulations had 
been made by Frank on her behalf, and 
this had been inserted among them. She 
had received the message with scorn — with 
a mixture of scorn and gratitude — of scorn 
in regard to the man who had promised 
to marry her, and of affectionate gratitude 
to the cousin who had made the arrange- 
ment. “ Of course I shall not wish to 
see him while he chooses to entertain such 
an idea,” she had said, “ but I shall not 
keep out of his way. You would not wish 
me to keep out of his way, Frank?” 
When she received a card for Lady Glen- 
cora’s party, very soon after this, she was 
careful to answer it in such a manner as 
to impress Lady Glencora with a remem- 
brance of her assent. Lord Fawn would 
probably be there, unless he remained 
away in order to avoid her. Then she 
had ten days in which to make up her 
mind as to wearing the diamonds. Her 
courage was good; but then her igno- 
rance was so great ! She did not know 
whether Mr. Camperdown might not con- 
trive to have them taken by violence from 
her neck, even on Lady -Glencora’s stairs. 
Her best security, so she thought, would 
be in the fact that Mr. Camperdown 
would not know of her purpose. She 
told no one, not even Miss Macnulty, but 
she appeared before that lady, arrayed in 
all her beauty, just as she was about to 
descend to her carriage. “You’ve got 
the necklace on ! ” said Miss Macnulty. 
“ Why should I not wear my own neck- 
lace? ” she asked, with assumed anger. 

Lady Glencora’s rooms were already 
very full when Lizzie entered them, but 
she was without a gentleman, and room 
was made for her to pass quickly up the 
stairs. The diamonds had been recog- 
nized by many before she had reached the 
drawing-room ; not that these' very dia- 
monds were known, or that there was a 
special memory for that necklace ; but the 
subject had been so generally discussed, 
that the blaze of the stones immediately 
brought it to the minds of men and wo- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


83 


men. “ There she is, with poor Eustace’s 
twenty thousand pounds round her neck,” 
said Laurence Fitzgibbon to his friend 
Barrington Erie. “ And there is Lord 
Fawn going to look after them,” replied 
the other. 

Lord Fawn thought it right, at any 
rate, to look after his bride. Lady Glen- 
cora had whispered into his ear before they 
went down to dinner that Lady Eustace 
would be there in the evening, so that he 
might have the option of escaping or re- 
maining. Could he have escaped without 
any one knowing that he had escaped, he 
would not have gone up stairs after din- 
ner ; but he knew that he was observed ; 
he knew that people were talking about 
him ; and he did not like it to be said 
that he had run away. He went up, 
thinking much of it all, and as soon as 
he saw Lady Eustace he made his way to 
her and accosted her. Many eyes were 
upon them, but no ear probably heard 
how infinitely unimportant were the words 
which they spoke to each other. Her 
manner was excellent. She smiled and 
gave him her hand — -just her hand with- 
out the slightest pressure — and spoke a 
half- whispered word, looking into his face, 
but betraying nothing by her look. Then 
he asked her whether she would dance. 
Yes ; she would stand up for a quadrille ; 
and they did stand up for a quadrille. As 
she danced with no one else, it was clear 
that she treated Lord Fawn as her lover. 
As soon as the dance was done she took 
his arm and moved for a few minutes 
about the room with him. She was very 
conscious of the diamonds, but she did 
not show the feeling in her face. He also 
was conscious of them, and he did show 
it. He did not recognize the necklace, 
but he knew well that this was the very 
bone of contention. They were very 
beautiful, and seemed to him to outshine 
all other jewelry in the room. And 
Lady Eustace was a woman of whom it 
might almost be said that she ought to 
wear diamonds. She was made to sparkle, 
to be bright with outside garniture — to 
shine and glitter, and be rich in apparel. 
The only doubt might be whether paste 
diamonds might not better suit her charac- 
ter. But these were not paste, and she 
did shine and glitter and was very rich. 
It must not be brought as an accusation 
against Lady Glencora’s guests that they 
pressed round to look at the necklace. 


Lady Glencora’s guests knew better than 
to do that. But there was some slight 
ferment — slight, but still felt both by 
Lord Fawn and by Lady Eustace. Eyes 
were turned upon the diamonds, and there 
were whispers here and there. Lizzie bore 
it very well ; but Lord Fawn was uncom- 
fortable. 

“I like her for wearing them,” said 
Lady Glencora to Lady Chiltern. 

“Yes — if she means to keep them. 1 
don’t pretend, however, to know any- 
thing about it. Y^ou see the match isn’t 
off.” 

“ I suppose not. AYhat do you think I 
did? He dined here, you know, and, be- 
fore going down ^airs, I told him that 
she was coming. I thought it only 
fair.” 

“ And what did he say ? ” 

“ I took care that he shouldn’t have to 
say anything; but, to tell the truth, I 
didn’t expect him to come up.” 

“There can’t be any quarrel at all,” 
said Lady Chiltern. 

“I’m not sure of that,” said Lady 
Glencora. “ They are not so ^■ery lov- 
ing.” 

Lady Eustace made the most of her op- 
portunity. Soon after the quadrille wi^s 
over she asked Lord Fawn to get her car- 
riage for her. Of course he got it, and 
of course he put her into it, passing up 
and down stairs twice in his efibrts on her 
behalf. And of course all the world saw 
what he was doing. Up to the last mo- 
ment not a word had been spoken between 
them that might not have passed between 
the most ordinary acquaintance ; but, as 
she took her seat, she put her fiice for- 
ward and did say a word. “ You had bet- 
ter come to me soon,” she said. 

“ I will,” said Lord Fawn. 

“ Yes ; you had better come soon. All 
this is wearing me — perhaps more than 
you think.” 

“ I will come soon,” said Lord Fawn, 
and then he returned among Lady Glen- 
cora’s guests, very uncomfortable. Lizzie 
got home in safety and locked up her dia- 
monds in the iron box. 


CHAPTER XVHI. 

AND I DAVE NOTHING TO GIVE. 

It was now the end of June, and Frank 
Greystock had been as yet but once at 


84 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Fawn Court since he had written to Lucy 
Morris asking her to be his wife. That 
was three weeks since, and as the barrier 
against him at Fawn Court had been re- 
moved by Lady Fawn herself, the Fawn 
girls thought that as a lover -he was very 
slack ; but Lucy was not in the least an- 
noyed. Lucy knew that it was all right ; 
for Frank, as he took his last walk round 
the shrubbery with her during that visit, 
had given her to understand that there 
was a little difl'erence between him and 
Lady Fawn in regard to Lizzie Eustace. 
“ I am her only relative in London,” 
Frank had said. 

“ Lady Linlithgow,” suggested Lucy. 

“ They have quarrelled, and the old 
woman is as bitter as gall. There is no 
one else to stand up for her, and I must 
see that she isn’t ill-used. Women do 
hate each other so virulently, and Lady 
Fawn hates her future daughter-in-law.” 
Lucy did not in the least grudge her lov- 
er’s assistance to his cousin. There was 
nothing of jealousy in her feeling. She 
thought that Lizzie was unworthy of 
Frank’s goodness, but on such an occasion 
as this she would not say so. She told 
him nothing of the bribe that had been 
offered her, nor on that subject had she 
said a word to any of the Fawns. She 
understood, too, that as Frank had de- 
clared his purpose of supporting Lizzie, 
it might be as well that he should see just 
at present as little of Lady Fawn as possi- 
ble. Not a word, however, had Lady 
Fawn said to Lucy disparaging her lover 
for his conduct. It was quite understood 
now at Fawn Court, by all the girls, and 
no doubt by the whole establishment, that 
Lizzie Eustace was to be regarded as an 
enemy. It was believed by them all that 
Lord Fawn had broken off the match — or, 
at least, that he was resolved to break it ; 
but various stratagems were to be used, 
and terrible engines of war were to be 
brought up if necessary, to prevent an al- 
liance which was now thought to be dis- 
reputable. Mrs. Hittawayhad been hard 
at work, and had found out something 
very like truth in regard to the whole 
transaction with Mr. Benjamin. Perhaps 
Mrs. Hittaway had found out more than 
was quite true as to poor Lizzie’s former 
sins ; but what she did find out she used 
with all her skill, communicating her facts 
to her mother, to Mr. Camperdown, and 
to her brother. Her brother had almost 


quarrelled with her, but still she con- 
tinued to communicate her facts. 

At this period Frank Greystock was 
certainly somewhat unreasonable in refer- 
ence to his cousin. At one time, as the 
reader will remember, he had thought of 
asking her to be his wife — because she was 
rich ; but even then he had not thought 
well of her, had hardly believed her to be 
honest, and had rejoiced when he found 
that circumstances rather than his own 
judgment had rescued him from that evil. 
He had professed to be delighted when 
Lord Fawn was accepted — as being happy 
to think* that his somewhat dangerous 
cousin was jDrovided with so safe a hus- 
band ; and, when he had first heard of 
the necklace, he had expressed an opinion 
that of course it would be given up. Ih 
all this then he had shown no strong loy- 
alty to his cousin, no very dear friendship, 
nothing to make those who knew him feel 
that he would buckle on armor in her 
cause. But of late — and that, too, since 
his engagement with Lucy — he had stood 
up very stoutly as her friend, and the ar- 
mor was being buckled on. He had not 
scrupled to say that he meant to see her 
through this business with Lord Fawn, 
and had somewhat astonished Mr. Cam- 
perdown by raising a doubt on the ques- 
tion of the necklace. 

“He can’t but know that she has no 
more right to it than I have,” Mr. Cam- 
perdown had said to his son with indig- 
nation. ;Mr. Camperdown was becoming 
unhappy about the necklace, not quite 
knowing how to proceed in the matter. 

In the mean time Frank had obe^md his 
better instincts, and had asked Lucy Mor- 
ris to be his wife. He had gone to Fawn 
Court in compliance with a promise to 
Lizzie Eustace that he would call upon her 
there. He had walked with Lucy because 
he was at Fawn Court. And he had 
written to Lucy because of the words he 
had spoken during the walk. ' In all this 
the matter had arranged itself as such 
matters do, and there was nothing, in 
truth, to be regretted. He really did love 
the girl with all his heart. It may, per- 
haps, be said that he had never in truth 
loved any other woman. In the best hu- 
mors of his mind he would tell himself— 
had from old times told himself often — 
that unless he married Lucy ^Morris he 
could never marry at all. When his 
mother, knowing that poor Lucy was pen- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


85 


niless, had, as mothers ^Yill do, begged 
him to beware, he had spoken up for his 
love honestly, declaring to her that in his 
eyes there was no woman living equal to 
Lucy Morris. The reader has seen him 
with the words almost on his tongue with 
which to ofier his hand to his cousin, Liz- 
zie Eustace, knowing as he did so that his 
heart had been given to Lucy — knowing 
also that Lucy’s heart had been given to 
him ! But he had not done it, and the 
better humor had prevailed. 

Within the figure and frame and clothes 
and cuticle, within the bones and flesh of 
many of us, there is but one person, a 
man or woman, with a preponderance 
either of good or evil, whose conduct in 
any emergency may be predicted with 
some assurance of accuracy by any one 
knowing the man or woman. Such per- 
sons are simple, single, and perhaps gen- 
erally safe. They walk along lines in ac- 
cordance with certain fixed instincts ^or 
principles, and are to-day as they were 
yesterday, and will be to-morrow as they 
are to-day. Lady Eustace was such a 
person, and so was Lucy Morris.. Oppo- 
site in their characters as the two poles, 
they were each of them a simple entity ; and 
any doubt or error in judging of the fu- 
ture conduct of either of them would come 
from insuJfficient knowledge of the woman. 
But there are human beings who, though 
of necessity single in body, are dual in 
character ; in whose breasts not only is 
evil always fighting against good, but to 
whom evil is sometimes horribly, hide- 
ously evil, but is sometimes also not hide- 
ous at all. Of such men it may be said 
that Satan obtains an intermittent grasp, 
from which, when it is released, the re- 
bound carries them high amid virtuous 
resolutions and a thorough love of things 
good and noble. Such men or women 
may hardly perhaps debase themselves 
with the more vulgar vices. They will 
not be rogues, or thieves, or drunkards, 
or perhaps liars ; but ambition, luxury, 
self-indulgence, pride, and covetousness 
will get a hold of them, and in various 
moods will be to them virtues in lieu of 
vices. Such a man was Frank Grey- 
stock, who could walk along the banks of 
the quiet, trout-giving Bob, at Bobsbo- 
rough, whipping the river with his rod^ 
telling himself that the world lost for love 
would be a bad thing well lost for a fine 
purpose ; and who could also stand, with 


his hands in his trousers pockets, looking 
down upon the pavement, in the purlieus 
of the courts at AV’^estminster, and swear 
to himself that he would win the game, 
let the cost to his heart be what it might. 
What must a man be who would allow 
some undefined feeling, some inward ache 
which he calls a passion and cannot ana- 
lyze, some desire which has come of in- 
stinct and not of judgment, to interfere 
with all the projects of his intellect, with 
all the work which he has laid out for 
his accomplishment ? Circumstances had 
thrown him into a path of life for which, 
indeed, his means were insufficient, but 
which he regarded as of all paths the no- 
blest and the manliest. If he could be 
true to himself— with such truth as at 
these moments would seem to him to be 
the truest truth — there - was nothing in 
rank, nothing in ambition, which might 
not be within his reach. He might live 
with the highest, the best-educated, and 
the most beautiful ; he might assist in di- 
recting national councils by his intelli- 
gence ; and might make a name for him- 
self which should be remembered in his 
country, and of which men would read the 
records in the histories written in after 
ages. But to do thisiie must walk wa- 
rily. He, an embarrassed man, a man 
already in debt, a man with no realized 
property coming to him in reversion, was 
called upon to live, and to live as though 
at his ease, among those who had been 
born to wealth. And, indeed, he had so 
cleverly learned the ways of the wealthy 
that he hardly knew any longer how to 
live at his ease among the poor. 

But had he walked warily when he went 
down to Richmond, and afterward, sitting 
alone in the obscurity of his chamber, 
wrote the letter which had made Lucy 
Morris so happy? It must be acknowl- 
edged that he did in truth love the girl — 
that he was capable of a strong feeling. 
She was not beautiful, hardly even pretty, 
small, in appearance almost insignificant, 
quite penniless, a governess ! He had 
often asked himself wffiat it was that had 
so vanquished him. She always wore a 
pale gray frock, with perhaps a gray rib- 
bon, never running into any bright form 
of clothing. She was educated, very well 
educated ; but she owned no great accom- 
plishment. She had not. sung his heart 
away or ravished him with the harp. 
Even of her words she was sparing, seem- 


86 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


ing to care more to listen than to speak ; 
a humble little thing to look at — one of 
whom you might say that she regarded 
herself as well-placed if left in the back- 
ground. Yet he had found her out and 
knew her. He had recognized the treas- 
ure, and had greatly desired to possess it. 
He had confessed to himself that, could 
splendor and ambition be laid aside, that 
little thing would be all the world to him. 
As he sat in court or in the House, patient 
from practice as he half-listened to the 
ponderous speeches of advocates or politi- 
cians, he would think of the sparkle in 
her eye, of the dimple in her chin, of the 
lines of the mouth which could plead so 
eloquently, though with few words. To 
sit on some high seat among his country- 
men and also to marry Lucy Morris, that 
would be a high ambition. He had cho- 
sen his way now, and she was engaged to 
be his wife. 

As he thought of it after he had done 
it, it was not all happiness, all content- 
ment with him. He did feel that he had 
crippled himself— impeded himself in run- 
ning the race, as it were with a log round 
his leg. He had offered to marry her, and 
he must do so at once, or almost at once, 
l)8cause she could now find no other home 
hut his. He knew, as well as did Lady 
Fawn, that she could not go into another 
family as governess ; and he knew also 
that she ought not to remain in Lady 
Fawn’s house an hour longer than she 
should be wanted there. He must alter 
his plan of living at once, give up the lux- 
ury of his rooms at the Grosvenor, take a 
small house somewhere, probably near the 
Swiss Cottage, come up and down to his 
chambers by the underground railway, 
and in all probability abandon Parliament 
altogether. He was not sure whether in 
good faith he should not at once give no- 
tice of his intended acceptance of the 
Chiltern Hundreds to the electors of Bobs- 
borough. Thus meditating, under the in- 
fluence of that intermittent evil grasp, al- 
most angry with himself for the open 
truth which he had spoken, or rather 
written, and perhaps thinking more of 
Lizzie and her beauty than he should have 
done, in the course of three weeks he had 
paid but one visit to Fawn Court. Then, 
of a sudden, finding himself one afternoon 
relieved from .work, he resolved to go 
there. The days were still almost at their 
longest, and he did not scruple to present 


himself before Lady Fawn between eight 
and nine in the evening. They were all 
at tea, and he was welcomed kindly. 
Lucy, when he was announced, at once 
got up and met him almost at the door- 
way, sparkling with just a tear of joy in 
her eye, with a look in her face and a lov- 
ing manner, which for the moment made 
him sure that the little house near the 
Swiss Cottage would, after all, be the 
only Elysium upon earth. If she spoke a 
word he hardly heard it, but her hand 
was in hLs, so cool and soft, almost trem- 
bling in its grasp, with no attempt to with- 
draw itself, frank, loving, and honest. 
There was a perfect satisfaction in her 
greeting which at once told him that she 
had no discontented thoughts — had had no 
such thoughts — because he had been go 
long without coming. To see him was a 
great joy. But every hour of her life was 
a joy to her, knowing, as she did knoAv, 
that he loved her. 

Lady Fawn was gracious, the girls were 
hospitable, and he found himself made 
very welcome amidst all the women at the 
tea-table. Not a Avord was said about 
Lizzie Eustace. Lady Fawn talked about 
Parliament, and professed to pity a poor 
lover who Avas so bound to his country 
that he could not see his mistress above 
once a fortnight. “ But there’ll be a 
good time coming next month,” she said ; 
for it Avas now July. “ Though the girls 
can’t make their claims felt, the grouse 
can.” 

“ It isn’t the House altogether that 
rules me Avith a rod of iron. Lady FaAAm,” 
said Frank, “ but the necessity of earning 
daily bread by the sweat of my broAV. A 
man Avho has to sit in court all day must 
take the night — or, indeed, any time that 
he can get — to read up his cases.” 

“ But the grouse put a stop to all 
AA'ork,” said Lady FaAvn. ' “ My gardener 
told me just noAV that he AA’anted a day or 
two in August. I don’t doubt but that he 
is going to the moors. Are you going to 
the moors, Mr. Greystock? ” 

As it happened, Frank Greystock did 
not quite- knoAV Avhether he was going to 
the moors or not. The Ayrshire grouse- 
shooting is not the best in Scotland ; but 
there is grouse-shooting in Ayrshire ; and 
the shooting on the Portray mountains is 
not the worst shooting in the county. The 
castle at Portray overhangs the sea, but 
there is a wild district attached to it 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


87 


stretching far back inland, in regard to 
which Lizzie Eustace was very proud of 
talking of “ her shooting.” Early in the 
spring of the present year she had asked 
her cousin Frank to accept the shooting 
for the coming season, and he had accept- 
ed it. “I shall probably be abroad,” she 
said, “but there is the old castle.” She 
had offered it as though he had been her 
brother, and he had said that he would go 
down for a couple of weeks — not to the 
castle, but to a little lodge some miles up 
from the sea, of which she told him when he 
declined the castle. When this invitation 
was given there was no engagement be- 
tween her and Lord Fawn. Since that 
date, within the last day or two, she had 
reminded him of it. “ Won’t his lord- 
ship be there? ” he had said laughingly. 
“ Certainly not,” she had answered with 
serious earnestness. Then she had ex- 
plained that her plan of going abroad had 
been set aside by circumstances. She did 
mean to go down to Portray. “ I couldn’t 
have you at the castle,” she said smiling ; 
“ but even an Othello couldn’t object to a 
first cousin at a little cottage ever so many 
miles off.” It wasn’t for him to suggest 
what objections might rile to the brain of 
a modern Othello ;■ but after some hesita- 
tion he said that he would be there. lie 
had promised the trip to a friend, and 
would like to keep his promise. But, 
nevertheless, he almost thought that he 
ought to avoid Portray. He intended to 
support his cousin as far as he might do 
so honestly ; but he was not quite minded 
to stand by her through good report and 
evil report. He did not desire to be spe- 
cially known as her champion, and yet he 
felt that that position would be almost 
forced upon him. He foresaw danger, 
and consequently he was doubting about 
his journey to Scotland. 

“ I hardly know whether I am or not,” 
said Frank, and he almost felt that he was 
blushing. 

“ I hope you are,” said Lucy. “ When 
a man has to work all day and nearly all 
night, he should go where he may get 
fresh air.” 

“ There’s very good air Without going 
to Scotland for it,” said Lady Fawn, who 
kept up an excellent house at Richmond, 
but who, with all her daughters, could 
not afford autumn trips. The Fawns 
lived at Fawn Court all the year round, 
and consequently Lady Fawn thought 


that air was to be found in England suffi- 
ciently good for all purposes of vitality 
and recreation. 

“It’snot quite the same thing,” said 
Lucy ; “ at least, not for a man.” 

After that she was allowed to escape 
into the grounds with her lover, and was 
made happy with half an hour of unalloy- 
ed bliss. To be alone with the girl to 
whom he is not engaged is a man’s de- 
light ; to be alone with the man to whom 
she is engaged is the woman’s. AVhen 
the thing is settled there is always pre- 
sent to the man something of a feeling of 
clipped wings ; whereas the woman is 
conscious of a new power of expanding 
her pinions. The certainty of the thing 
is to him repressive. He has done his 
work, and gained his victory, and by con- 
quering has become a slave. To her the 
certainty of the thing is the removal of 
a restraint which has hitherto always been 
on her. She can tell him everything, and 
be told everything, whereas her previous 
confidences, made with those of her own 
sex, have been tame, and by comparison 
valueless. , He has no new confidence to 
make, unless when becomes to tell her he 
likes his meat well done, and wants his 
breakfast to be punctual. Lucy now noi 
only promised herself, but did actually 
realize a great joy. He seemed to be to 
her all that her heart desired. He was a 
man whose manner was naturally caress- 
ing and demonstrative, and she was to 
him, of all women, the sweetest, the dear- 
est, the most perfect, and all his own. 
“But, Frank” — she had already been 
taught to call him Frank when they were 
alone together — “ w'hat will come of all 
this about Lizzie Eustace? ” 

“ They will be married, of course.” 

“Do you think so? I am sure Lady 
Fawn doesn’t think so.” 

“ What Lady Fawn thinks on such a 
matter cannot be helped. ' When a man 
asks a woman to marry him, and she 
accepts, the natural consequence is that 
they will be married. Don’t you think 
so?” 

“ I hope so, sometimes,” said Lucy, 
wdth her two hands joined upon his arm, 
and hanging to it with all her little 
weight. 

“ You really do hope it? ” he said. 

“ Oh, I do ; you know I do. Hope it ! 
I should die if I didn’t hope it.” 

‘ ‘ Then why shouldn’t she ? ” He asked 


88 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


his question with a quick, sharp voice, 
and then turned upon her for an an- 
swer. 

“ I don’t know,” she said, very softly, 
and still clinging to him. “I sometimes 
think there is a dilference in people.” 

“ There is a difference ; but, still, we 
hardly judge of people sufficiently by our 
own feelings. As she accepted him, you 
may be sure that she wishes to marry him. 
She has more to give than he has.” 

“ And I have nothing to give,” she 
said. 

“ If I thought so, I’d go back even 
novr,” he answered. “ It is because you 
have so much to give — so much more than 
most others — that I have thought of you, 
dreamed of you as my wife, almost ever 
since I first knew you.” 

“ I have nothing left to give,” she said. 
“ What I ever had is all given. People 
call it the heart. I think it is heart, and 
brain, and mind, and body, and almost 
soul. But, Frank, though Lizzie Eustace 
is your cousin, I don’t want to be likened 
to her. She is very clever, and beautiful, 
and has a way with her that I know is 
charming. But ” 

“ But what, Lucy? ” 

“ I don't think she cares so much as 
some people. I dare say she likes Lord 
Fawn very well, but I do not believe she 
loves him as I love you.” 

“They’re engaged,” said Frank, “ and 
the best thing they can do is to marry each 
other. I can tell you this at any rate ” 
— and his manner again became serious — 
“ if Lord Fawn behaves ill to her, I, as 
her cousin, shall take her part.” 

“ You don’t mean that you’ll — fight 
him! ” 

“No, my darling. Men don’t fight 
each othgr now-a-days — not often, at 
least — and Fawn and I are not of the fight- 
ing sort. I can make him understand 
what I mean and what others will mean 
without fighting him. He is making a 
paltry excuse.” 

‘ ‘ But why should he want to excuse him- 
self— without reason? ” 

“ Because he is afraid. People have 
got hold of him and told him lies, and he 
thinks there will be a scrape about this 
necklace, and he hates a scrape. He’ll 
marry her at last, without a doubt, and 
Lady Fawn is only making trouble for her- 


self by trying to prevent it. You can’t 
do anything.” 

“ Oh no — I can’t do anything. When 
she was here it became at last quite dis- 
agreeable. She hardly spoke to them, 
and I’m sure that even the servants un- 
derstood that there was a quarrel.” She 
did not say a word of Lizzie’s offer of* the 
brooch to herself, nor of the stories which 
by degrees were reaching her ears as to 
the old debts, and the diamonds, and the 
young bride’s conduct to Lady Linlithgow 
as soon as she married her grand husband, 
Sfr Florian. She did think badly of Liz- 
zie, and could not but regret that her own 
noble, generous Frank should have to ex- 
pend his time and labor on a friend un- 
worthy of his friendship ; but there was 
no shade of jealousy in her feeling, and 
she uttered no word against Lizzie more 
bitter than that in which she declared 
that there was a difference between people. 

And then there was something said as 
to their own prospects in life. Lucy at 
once and with vehemence declared that she 
did not look for or expect an immediate 
marriage. She did not scruple to tell 
him that she kn|w well how difficult was 
the task before him, and that it might be 
essential for his interest that he should 
remain as he was for a year or two. He 
was astonished to find how completely she 
understood his position, and how thorough- 
ly she sympathized with his interests. 
“There is only one thing I couldn’t do 
for you,” she said. 

“ And Tvhat is the one thing? ” 

“ I couldn’t give you up. I almost 
thought that I ought to refuse you be- 
cause I can do nothing — nothing to help 
you. But there will always come a limit 
to self-denial. I couldn’t do that! Could 
I? ” 

The reader will know how this question 
was answered, and will not want to be 
told pf the long, close, clinging, praise- 
worthy kiss with wffiich the young barris- 
ter assured her that would have been on 
her part an act of self-denial which would 
to him have been absolutely ruinous. It 
was agreed, however, between them, that 
Lady Fawn should be told that they did 
not propose to marry till some time in the 
following year, and that she should be 
formally asked to allow Lucy to have a 
home at Fawn Court in the interval. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


AS MV BROTHER. 

L ord fawn had promised, as he 
put Lizzie into her carriage, that he 
would come to her soon — but he did not 
come soon. A fortnight passed and he did 
not show himself. Nothing further had 
been done in the matter of the diamonds, 
except that Mr. Camperdown had written 
to Frank Greystock, explaining how im- 
possible it was that the question of their 
possession should be referred to arbitra- 
tion. According to him they belonged to 
the heir, as did the estate ; and no one 
would have the power of accepting an 
arbitration respecting them — an arbitra- 
tion which might separate them from 
the estate of which an infant was the 
owner for his life — any more than such 
arbitration could be accepted as to the 
property of the estate itself. “ Possession 
is nine points of the law,” said Frank to 
himself, as he put the letter aside — think- 
ing at the same time that possession in 
the hands of Lizzie Eustace included cer- 
tainly every one of those nine points. 
Lizzie wore her diamonds again and then 
again. There may be a question whether 
the possession of the necklace and the 
publicity of its history — which, however, 
like many other histories, Avas most in- 
accurately told — did not add something 
to her reputation as a lady of fashion. In 
the mean time Lord Fawn did not come 
to see her. So she wrote to him. “ My 
dear Frederic : Had you not better come 
to me? Yours affectionately, L. I go to 
the North at the end of this month.” 

But Frank Greystock did visit her, 
more than once. On the day after the 
above letter was written he came to her. 
It Avas on Sunday afternoon, Avhen July 
was more than half over, and he found her^ 
alone. MissMacnulty had gone to church, 
and Lizzie was lying listlessly on a sofa 
with a volume of poetry in her hand. She 
had in truth been reading the book, and 
in her way enjoying it. It told her the 
story of certain knights of old, who had 
gone forth in quest of a sign from heaven. 


Avhich sign, if verily seen by them, might 
be taken to signify that they themselvCvS 
were esteemed holy, and fit for heavenly 
jo5^ One would haA^e thought that no 
theme could haA'e been less palatable to 
such a one as Lizzie Eustace ; but the 
melody of the lines had pleased her ear, 
and she Avas always able to arouse for her- 
self a false enthusiasm on things Avhich 
were utterly outside herself in life. She 
thought she too could have traA'elled in 
search of that holy sign, and have borne 
all things, and abandoned all things, and 
have persevered, and of a certainty have 
been rewarded. But as for giving up a 
string of diamonds, in common honesty, 
that was beyond her. 

“ I Avonder whether men ever were like 
that? ” she said, as she alloAved her cousin 
to take the book from her hands. 

“ Let us hope not.” 

“ Oh, Frank! ” 

“ They were, no doubt, as fanatic and 
foolish as you please. If you will read to 
the end ” 

“ I have read it all, every AAwd of it,” 
said Lizzie, enthusiastically. 

“ Then you knoAV that Arthur did not 
go on the search, because he had a job of 
work to do, by the doing of which the 
people around him might perhaps be 
somewhat benefited.” 

“ I like Launcelot better than Arthur,” 
said Lizzie. 

“ So did the Queen,” replied Frank. 

“ Your useful, practical man, who at- 
tends vestries and sits at boards, and 
measures out his gifts to others by the 
ounce, neA'er has any heart. Has he, 
Frank?” 

“ I don’t know what heart means. 1 
sometimes fancy that it is a talent for get- 
ing into debt, and running aA\my with 
other men’s AvRes.” 

‘ ‘ You say that on purpose to make me 
quarrel with you. You don’t run away 
with other men’s AvRes, and you have 
heart.” 

“But I get into debt, unfortunately; 
and as for other men’s wives, I am not 
sure that I may not do even that some 


00 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


day. Has Lord Fawn been here ? ” She 
shook her head. “ Or written ? ” Again 
she shook her head. As she did so the 
long curl waved and was very near to him, 
for he was sitting close to the sofa, and 
she had raised herself so that she might 
look into his face and speak to him almost 
in a whisper. “ Something should be 
settled, Lizzie, before you leave town.” 

“I wrote to him yesterday, one line, 
and desired him to come. I expected him 
here to-day, but you have come instead. 
Shall I say that I am disappointed? ” 

“ No doubt you are so.” 

“Oh, Frank, how vain you men are! 
You want me to swear to you that I 
would sooner have you with me than him. 
You are not content with — thinking it, 
unless I tell you that it is so. You know 
that it is so. Though he is to be my hus- 
band — I suppose he will be my husband — 
his spirit is not congenial to mine, as is 
yours.” 

“ Had you not loved him you would not 
have accepted him.” 

“ What was I to do, Frank? What am 
I to do? Think how desolate I am, how 
unfriended, how much in want of some 
one whom I can call a protector ! I can- 
not have you always with me. You care 
more for the little finger of that prim 
piece of propriety down at the old dowa- 
ger’s than you do for me and all my sor- 
rows.” This was true, but Frank did not 
say that it was true. “ Lord Fawn is at 
any rate respectable. At least I thought 
he was so when I accepted his offer.” 

“ He Ls respectable enough.” 

“Just that — isn’t it? — and nothing 
more. You do not blame me for saying 
that I would be his wife? If j^ou do, I 
will unsay it, let it cost me what it may. 
He is treating me so badly that I need not 
go far for an excuse.” Then she looked 
into his face with all the eagerness of her 
gaze, clearly implying that she expected 
a serious answer. “ Why do you not an- 
swer me, Frank?” 

“What am I to say? He is a timid, 
cautious man. They have frightened him 
about this trumpery necklace, and he is 
behaving badly. But he will make a 
good husband. He is not a spendthrift. 
He has rank. All his people are respect- 
able. As Lady Fawn any house in Eng- 
land will be open to j’ou. He is not rich, 
but together 3^011 will be rich.” 

“ What is all that without love? ” 


“ I do not doubt his love. And when 
you are his own he will love 3’-ou jiearly.” 

“Ah, yes; as he would a horse or a 
picture. Is there anything of the rapture 
of love in that ? Is that your idea of love ? 
Is it so you love your Miss Demure? ” 

“ Don’t call names, Lizzie.” 

“ I shall say what I please of her. You 
and I are to be friends, and I may nut 
speak ? No ; I will have no such friend- 
ship ! She is demure. If you like it, 
what harm is there in my saying it ? I 
am not demure. I know that. I do not, 
at least, pretend to be other than I am. 
AYhen she becomes your wife, I wonder 
whether you will like her wa3^s?” He 
had not yet told her that she was to be 
his wife, nor did he so tell her now. He 
thought for a moment that he had better 
tell her, but he did not do so. It would, 
he said to himself, add an embarrassment 
to his present position. And as the mar- 
riage was to be postponed for a year, it 
might be better, perhaps, for Lucy that 
it should not be declared openly. It was 
thus he argued with himself, but yet, no 
doubt, he knew well that he did not de- 
clare the truth because it would take 
away something of its sweetness from this 
friendship with his cousin Lizzie. 

“ If I ever do marry,” he said, “ I hope 
I shall like my wife’s ways.” 

“ Of course you will not tell me any- 
thing. I do not expect confidence from 
you. I do not think a man is ever able 
to work himself up to the mark of true 
confidence with his friend. Men together, 
when they like each other, talk of poli- 
tics, or perhaps of money; but I doubt 
whether they ever really tell their thoughts 
and longings to each other.” 

“ Are women more communicative?” 

“Yes; certainly. What is there I 
would not tell you if you cared to hear it? 
Every thought I have is open to you if 
you choose to read it. I have that feeling 
regarding you that I would keep nothing 
back from you. Oh, Frank, if you under- 
stood me, 3^ou could save me — I was going 
to say — from all unhappiness.” 

She did it so well that he would liave 
been more than man had he not believed 
some of it. She was sitting almost up- 
right now, though her feet were still on 
the sofa, and was leaning over towards 
him, as though imploring him for his aid, 
and her e3"es were full of tears, and her 
lips were apart as though still eager with 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


91 


the energy of expression, and her hands 
were clasped together. She was very 
lovely, very attractive, almost invincible. 
For such a one as Frank Greystock oppo- 
sition to her in her present mood was im- 
possible. There are men by whom a wo- 
man, if she have wit, beauty, and no con- 
science, cannot be withstood. Arms may 
be used against them, and a sort of battle 
waged, against which they can raise no 
shield — from which they can retire into 
no fortress — in which they can parry no 
blow. A man so weak and so attacked 
may sometimes run ; but even the poor 
chance of running is often cut off from 
him. How unlike she was to Lucy ! He 
believed her — in part ; and yet that was 
the idea that occurred to him. When 
Lucy was much in earnest, in her eye, 
too, a tear would sparkle, the smallest 
drop, a bright liquid diamond that never 
fell ; and all her face would be bright 
and eloquent with feeling ; but how un- 
like were the two ! He knew that the 
difference was that between truth and 
falsehood ; and yet he partly believed the 
falsehood. ‘ ‘ If I knew how to save you from 
an hour’s uneasiness, I would do it,” he 
said. 

“ No — no — no ! ” she murmured. 

“ Would I not ? You do not know me 
then.” He had nothing further to say, 
and it suited her to remain silent for the 
moment, while she dried her eyes and 
recovered her composure, and prepared 
herself to carry on the battle with a smile. 
She would carry on the battle, using every 
wile she knew, straining every nerve to be 
victorious, encountering any and all dan- 
gers, and yet she had no definite aim before 
her. She herself did not know what she 
would be at. At this period of her career 
she did not want to marry her cousin — hav- 
ing resolved that she would be Lady Fawn. 
Nor did she intend that her cousin should 
be her lover — in the ordinary sense of love. 
She was far too wary in the pursuit of the 
world’s goods to sacrifice herself to any 
such wish as that. She did want him to 
help her about the diamonds; but such 
help as that she might have, as she knew 
well, on much easier terms. There was 
probably an anxiety in her bosom to cause 
him to be untrue to Lucy ^Morris ; but the 
guiding motive of her conduct was the de- 
sire to make things seem to be other than 
they were. To be always acting a part 
rather than living her own life was to her 


everything. “ After all we must come to 
facts,” he said, after a while. “ I suppose 
it will be better that you should marry 
Lord Fawn.” 

“ If you wish it.” 

“ Nay ; I cannot have that said. In 
this matter you must rule yourself by your 
own judgment. If you are averse to 

it ’’ She shook her head. “ Then 

you will own that it had better be so.” 
Again she shook her head. “ Lizzie, for 
your sake and my own, I must declare 
that if you have no opinion in this matter, 
neither will I have any. You shall never 
have to say that I pressed you into this 
marriage or debarred you from marrying. 
I could not bear such an accusation.” 

“ But you might tell me what I ought 
to do.” 

“No; certainly not.” 

“ Think how young I am, and — by com- 
parison — how old you are. You are eight 
years older than I am. Remember, after 
all that I have gone through, I am but 
twenty-two. At my age other girls have 
their friends to tell them. I have no one, 
unless you will tell me.” 

“ You have accepted him? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ I suppose he is not altogether indiffer- 
ent to you?” 

She paused, and again shook her head. 
“ Indeed I do not know. If you mean, do 
I love him, as I could love some man 
whose heart was quite congenial to my 
own, certainly I do not.” She continued 
to shake her head very sadly. “ I es- 
teemed him — when he asked me. ’ ’ 

“ Say at once that, having made up 
your mind, you will go through with it.” 

“ You think that I ought?” 

“ You think so— yourself.” 

“ So be it, Frank. I will. But, Frank, 
I will not give up my property. You do 
not wish me to do that. It would be weak 
now — would it not ? I am sure that it is 
my own.” 

“ His faith to you should not depend on 
that.” 

“ No, of course not; that is just what 
I mean. He can have no right to inter- 
fere. When he asked me to be his wife, 
he said nothing about that. But if he 
does not come to me, what shall I do ?” 

“ I suppose I had better see him,” said 
Frank slowly. 

“ Will you ? That will be so good of 
you. I feel that I can leave it all safely 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


9ti 

in yoar hands. I shall go out of town, 
you know, on the 30th. I feel that I 
shall be better away, and I am sick of all 
the noise, and glitter, and worldliness of 
London. You will come on the 12th ? ” 

“ Not quite so soon as that,” he said, 
after a pause. 

“ But you will come? ” 

“ Yes ; about the 20th.” 

“ And, of course, I shall see j^ou? ” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“ So that I may have some one to guide 
me that I can trust. I have no brother, 
Frank; do you ever think of that? ” She 
put out her hand to him, and he clasped 
it, and held it tight in his own ; and then, 
after a while, he pulled her towards him. 
In a moment she was on the ground, 
kneeling at his feet, and his arm was 
round her shoulder, and his hand was on 
her back, and he was embracing her. 
Her face was turned up to him, and he 
pressed his lips upon her forehead. “ As 
my brother,” she said, stretching back 
her head and looking up into his face. 

'• Yes ; as your brother.” 

They were sitting, or rather acting their 
little play together, in the back drawing- 
room, and .the ordinary entrance to tlie 
two rooms was from the landing-place into 
the larger apartment ; of which fact Liz- 
zie was probably aware, when she per- 
mitted herself to fall into a position as to 
which a moment or two might be wanted 
for recovery. When, therefore, the ser- 
vant in livery opened the door, which he 
did as Frank thought somewhat sudden- 
ly, she was able to be standing on her legs 
before she was caught. The quickness 
with which she sprung from her position, 
and the facility •^vith which she composed 
not her face only, but the loose lock of her 
hair and all her person, for the reception 
of the coming visitor, was quite marvel- 
lous. About her there was none of the look 
of having been found out, which is so very 
disagreeable to the wearer of it ; whereas 
Frank, when Lord Fawn was announced, 
was aware that his manner was awkward, 
and his general appearance flurried. Liz- 
zie was no more flurried than if she had 
stepped that moment from out of the 
hands of her tire- woman. , She greeted 
Lord Fawn very prettily, holding him by 
the hand long enough to show that she 
had more claim to do so than could any 
other woman, and then she just murmur- 
ed her cousin’s name. The two men 


shook hands, and looked at each other as 
men who know they are not friends, and 
think that they may live to be enemies. 
Lord Fawn, who rarely forgot anything, 
had certainly not forgotten the Sawab ; 
and Frank was aware that he might soon 
be called on to address his lordship in any- 
thing but friendly terms. They said, 
however, a few words about Parliament 
and the weather, and the desirability of 
escaping from London. 

“ Frank,” said Lady Eustace, “ is com- 
ing down in August to shoot my three 
annual grouse at Portray. He would 
keep one for you, my lord, if he thought 
you would come for it.” 

“ I’ll promise Lord Fawn a fair third at 
any rate,” said Frank. 

“ I cannot visit Portray this August, 
I’m afraid,” said his lordship, “ much as 
I might wish to do so. One of us must 

remain at the India Office ” 

“Oh, that weary India Ofiice!” ex- 
claimed Lizzie. 

“ I almost think that you official men 
are worse off than we barristers,” said 
Frank. “ Well, Lizzie, good-by. I dare 
say I shall see you again before you start.” 

“ Of course you will,” said Lizzie. 
And then the two lovers were left togeth- 
er. They had met once, at Lady Glenco- 
i-a’s ball, since the quarrel at FaAvn Court, 
and there, as though by mutual forbear- 
ance, had not alluded to their troubles. 
Now he had come especially to speak of 
the matter that concerned them both so 
deeply. As long as Frank Greystock was 
in the room his work was comparatively 
easy, but he had known beforehand that 
he would not find it all easy should he be 
left alone Avith her. Lizzie began. “My 
lord,” she said, “ considering all that has 
IDassed between us you have been a truant. ’ ’ 

“ Yes ; I admit it — but ” 

“ With me, my lord, a fault admitted 
is a fault forgiven.” Then she took her 
old seat on the sofa, and he placed himself 
on the chair which Frank Greystock had 
occupied. He had not intended to OAA’n a 
fault, and certainly not to accept forgive- 
ness ; but she had been too quick for him ; 
and now he could not find words by Avhich 
to express himself. “ In truth,” she con- 
tinued, “ I would always rather remember 
one kindness than a dozen omissions on 
the part of a friend.” 

“ Lady Eustace, I have not willingly 
omitted anything.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


93 


“So be it. I will not give you the 
slightest excuse for saying that you have 
heard a reproach from me. You have 
come at last, and you are welcome. Is 
that enough for you? ” 

He had much to say to her about the 
diamonds, arid when he was entering the 
room he had not a word to say to her 
about anything else. Since that another 
subject had sprung up before him. 
Whether he was or was not to regard 
himself as being at this moment engaged 
to marry Lady Eustace, was a matter to 
him of much doubt ; but of this he was 
sure, that if she were engaged to him as 
his wife, she ought not to be entertaining 
her cousin Frank Greystock down at Por- 
tray Castle unless she had some old lady, 
not only respectable in life but high in 
rank also, to see that everything was 
right. It was almost an insult to him 
that such a -visit should have been ar- 
ranged without his sanction or cognizance. 
Of course, if he were bound by no engage 
ment — and he had been persuaded by his 
wife and sister to wish that he were not 
bound — then the matter would be no af- 
fair of his. If, however, the diamonds 
were abandoned, then the engagement was 
to be continued ; and in that case it was 
out of the question that his elected bride 
should entertain another young man, even 
though she was a widow and the young 
man was her cousin. Of course he should 
have spoken of the diamonds first ; but 
the other matter had obtruded itself upon 
him, and he was puzzled. “ Is Mr. Grey- 
stock to accompany you into Scotland ? ” 
he asked. 

“ Oh dear, no. I go on the 30th of this 
month. I hardly know w'hen he means to 
be there.” 

“ He follows you to Portray?” 

“ Yes ; he follows me of course. ‘ The 
king himself has followed her, when she 
has gone before.’” Lord ^ Fawn did not 
remember the quotation, and was more 
puzzled than ever. “ Frank will follow 
me, just as the other shooting men will 
follow me.” 

“ He goes direct to Portray Castle? ” 

“ Neither directly nor indirectly. Just 
at present. Lord Fawn, I am in no mood 
to entertain guests — not even one that I 
love so well as my cousin Frank. The 
Portray ' mountains are somewhat exten- 
sive, and at the back of them there is a 
little shooting-lodge.” 


“Oh, indeed,” said Lord Fawn, feeling 
that he had better dash*at once at the dia- 
monds. 

“ If you, my lord, could manage to join 
us for a day, my cousin and his friend 
w'ould, I am sure, come over to the castle, 
so that you should not suffer from being 
left alone with me and Miss Macnulty.” 

“ At present it is impossible,” said 
Lord Fawn ; and then he paused. “ Lady 
Eustace, the position in which you and I 
stand to each other is one not altogether 
free from trouble.” 

“ You cannot say that it is of my mak- 
ing,” she said with a smile. “ You once 
asked — what men think a favor from me — 
and I granted it, perhaps too easily.” 

“ I know how greatly I am indebted to 

your goodness. Lady Eustace ” And 

then again he paused. 

“ Lord Fawn! ” 

“ I trust you will believe that nothing 
can be further from me than that you 
should be harassed by any conduct of 
mine.” 

“lam harassed, my lord.” 

“And so am I. I have learned that 
you are in possession of certain jewels 
which I cannot allow to be held by my 
wife.” 

‘ ‘ I am not your wifb, Lord Fawn. ’ ’ As 
she said this she rose from her reclining 
posture and sat erect. 

“ That is true. You are not. But you 
said you would be.” 

“ Go on, sir.” 

‘ ‘ It was the pride of my life to think 
that I had attained to so much happiness. 
Then came this matter of the diamonds.” 

“ What business have you with my dia- 
monds more than any other man? ” 

“ Simply that I am told that they are 
not yours.” 

“ Who telLs you so? ” 

“ Various people. Mr. Camperdown.” 

“ If you, my lord, intend to take an 
attorney’s word against mine, and that on 
a matter as to which no one but myself 
can know the truth, then you are not fit 
to be my husband. The diamonds are my 
own, and should you and I become man 
and wife, they must remain so by special 
settlement. While I choose to keep them 
they will be mine, to do with them as I 
please. It will be my pleasure, wdien my 
boy marries, to hang them round his 
bride’s neck.” She carried herself well, 
and spoke her words with 'dignity. 


94 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ What I have got to say is this,” began 
Lord Fawn. “ I must consider our en- 
gagement as at an end unless you will 
give them up to Mr. Camperdown.” 

“ I will not give them up to Mr. Cam- 
perdown.” 

“ Then — then — then ” 

“And I make bold to tell you, Lord 
Fawn, that you are not behaving to me 
like a man of honor. I shall now leave 
the matter in the hands of my cousin, Mr. 
Greystock.” Then she sailed out of the 
room, and Lord Fawn was driven to es- 
cape from the house as he might. He 
stood about the room for five minutes with 
his hat in his hand, and then walked 
down and let himself out of the front door. 


CHAPTER XX. 

TUE DIAMONDS BECX)ME TROUBLESOME. 

The 30th of July came round, and Liz- 
zie was prepared for her journey down to 
Scotland. She was to be accompanied by 
Miss Macnulty and her own maid and her 
own servants, and to travel of course like 
a grand lady. She had not seen Lord 
Fawn since the meeting recorded in the 
last chapter, but had seen her cousin 
Frank nearly every other day. He, after 
much consideration, had written a long 
letter to Lord Fawn, in which he had 
given that nobleman to understand that 
some explanation was required as tc con- 
duct which Frank described as being to 
him “at present unintelligible.” He 
then went at considerable length into the 
matter of the diamonds, wdth the_ object 
of proving that Lord Fawn could have no 
possible right to interfere in the matter. 
And though he had from the first wished 
that Lizzie would give up the trinket, he 
made various points in her favor. Not 
only had they been given to his cousin by 
her late husband ; but even had they not 
been so given, they would have been hers 
by will. Sir Florian had left her every- 
thing that was within the walls of Por- 
tray Castle, and the diamonds had been at 
Portray at the time of Sir Florian’s death. 
Such was Frank’s statement — untrue in- 
deed, but believed by him to be true. 
This was one of Lizzie’s lies, forged as 
soon as she understood that some subsid- 
iary claim miglit be made upon them on 
the ground that they formed a portion of 
property left by will away from her ; some 


claim subsidiary to the grand claim, that 
the necklace was a family heirloom. Lord 
Fawn was not in the least shaken in his 
conviction that Lizzie had behaved, and 
was behaving, badly, and that, therefore, 
he had better get rid of her ; but he knew 
that he must be very wary iii the reasons 
he would give for jilting her. He wrote, 
therefore, a very short note to Greystock, 
promising that any explanation needed 
should be given as soon as circumstances 
should admit of his forming a decision. 
In the mean time the 30th of July came, 
and Lady Eustace was ready for her jour- 
ney. 

There Ls, or there was, a train leaving 
London for Carlisle at eleven a. m., by 
whieh Lizzie purposed to travel, so that 
she might sleep in that city and go on 
through Dumfries to Portray the next 
morning. This was her scheme ; but 
there was another part of her scheme as 
to which she had felt much doubt. 
Should she leave the diamonds, or should 
she take them with her? The iron box 
in which they were kept was small, and 
so far portable that a strong man might 
carry it without much trouble. Indeed, 
Lizzie could move it from one part of the 
room to the other, and she had often done 
so. But it was so heavy that it could not 
be taken with her without attracting at- 
tention. The servant would know what 
it was, and the porter would know, and 
Miss Macnulty would know. That her 
own maid should know was a matter of 
course ; but even to her own maid the 
journey of the jewels would be remark- 
able because of the weight of the box, 
whereas if they went with her other jewels 
in her dressing-case, there would be noth- 
ing remarkable. She might even have 
taken them in her pocket, had she dared. 
But she did not dare. Though she was 
intelligent and courageous, she was won- 
derfully ignorant as to what might and 
wdiat might not be done for the recovery 
of the necklace by Mr. Camperdown. 
She did not dare to take them without the 
iron box, and at last she decided that the 
box should go. At a little after ten, her 
own carriage — the job-carriage, which 
was now about to perform its last journey 
in her service — was at the door, and a cab 
was there for the servants. The luggage 
was brought down, and wdth the larger 
boxes was brought the iron case with the 
necklace. The servant, certainly making 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


95 


more of tbe weight than he need have 
done, deposited it as a foot-stool for Liz- 
zie, who then seated herself, and was fol- 
lowed by Miss Macnulty. She would 
have it placed in the same way beneath 
her feet in the railway carriage, and again 
brought into her room at the Carlisle 
Hotel. What though the porter did 
know ! There was nothing illegal in 
travelling about with a heavy iron box 
full of diamonds, and the risk would be 
less this way, she thought, than were she 
to leave them behind her in London. The 
house in Mount street, which she had 
taken for the season, was to be given up ; 
and whom could she trust in London? 
Her very bankers, she feared, would have 
betrayed her, and given up her treasure 
to ^Ir, Camperdown. As for Messrs. 
Harter & Benjamin, she felt sure that 
they would be bribed by Mr. Camperdown. 
She once thought of asking her cousin to 
take the charge of them, but she could 
not bring herself to let them out of her 
own hands. Ten thousand pounds ! If 
she could only sell them and get the 
money, from what a world of trouble 
would she be relieved. And the sale, for 
another reason, would have been con- 
venient ; for Lady Eustace was already a 
little in debt. But she could not sell 
them, and therefore when she got into the 
carriage there was the box under her feet. 

At that very moment who should ap- 
pear on the pavement, standing between 
the carriage and the house-door, but Mr. 
Camperdown? And with Mr. Camper- 
down there was another man — a very sus- 
picious-looking man, whom Lizzie at once 
took to be a detective officer of police. 
“ Lady Eustace ! ” said Mr. Camperdown, 
taking ofl' his hat. Lizzie bowed across 
Miss Macnulty, and endeavored to restrain 
the tell-tale blood from flying to her 
cheeks. “ I believe,” said Mr. Camper- 
down, “ that 3mu are now starting for 
Scotland.” 

“We are, Mr. Camperdown ; and we 
are very late.” 

“ Could you allow me two minutes’ con- 
versation with you in the house ? ” 

“ Oh dear, no. We are late, I tell you. 
AVhat a time you have chosen for coming, 
Mr. Camperdown ! ” 

“ It is an awkward hour. Lady Eustace. 
I only heard this morning that you were 
going so soon, and it is imperative that I 
should see you.” 


“ Had 3’-ou not better write, Mr. Cam- 
perdown ? ” 

“ You will never answer my letters, 
Madame.” 

“ I — I — I really cannot see 3^0 u now. 
William, the coachman must drive on. 
We cannot allow ourselves to lose the 
train. lam really very sorry, Mr. Cam- 
perdown, but we must not lose the train.” 

“Lady Eustace,” said Mr. Camper- 
down, putting his hand on the carriage- 
door, and so demeaning himself that the 
coachman did not dare to drive on, “I 
must ask you a question.” He spoke in 
a low voice, but he was speaking across 
Miss Macnulty. That lady, therefore, 
heard him, and so did William, the ser- 
vant, who was standing close to the door. 
“ I must insist on knowing where are the 
Eustace diamonds.” Lizzie felt the box 
beneath her feet, and, without shoAving 
that she did so, someAvhat widened her 
drapery. 

“ I can tell you nothing now. William, 
make the coachman drive on.” 

“ If you will not answer me, I must 
tell you that I shall be driven in the exe- 
cution of my duty to obtain a search-AAmr- 
rant, in order that they may be placed in 
proper custody. They are not your prop- 
erty, and must be taken out of your 
hands.” 

Lizzie looked at the suspicious man 
Avith a frightened gaze. The suspicious 
man Avas, in fact, a A;ery respectable clerk 
in Mr. CamperdoAvn’s employment, but 
Lizzie for a moment felt that the search 
was about to begin at once. She had 
hardly understood the threat, and thought 
that the attorney Avas already armed Avitli 
the poAvers of which he spoke. She 
glanced for a moment at Miss Macnulty, 
and then at the servant. Would they be- 
tray her? If they chose to use force to 
her, the box certainly might be taken 
from her. “ I know I shall lose the train,” 
she said. “ I know I shall. I must in- 
sist that 3'ou let my seiwant drive on.” 
There was noAV a little crowd of a dozen 
persons on the pavement, and there Avas 
nothing to cover her diamonds but the 
skirt of her travelling-dress. 

“ Are they in this house, Lady Eus- 
tace? ” 

“ Why doesn’t he go on ? ” shouted Liz- 
zie. “ You have no right, sir, to stop me 
I Avon’t be stopped.” 

“ Or have 3W got them with you? ” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


I'G 


“ I shall answer no questions. You 
have no right to treat me in this way.” 

“ Then I shall be forced, on behalf of 
the family, to obtain a search- w'arrant, 
both here and in Ayrshire, and proceed- 
ings will be taken also against j^our lady- 
ship personally.” So saying, Mr. Cam- 
perdown withdrew, and at last the car- 
riage was driven on. 

As it happened, there was time enough 
for catching the train, and to spare. The 
whole affair in Mount street had taken 
less than ten minutes. But the effect 
upon Lizzie w^as very severe. For a Avhile 
she could not speak, and at last she burst 
out into h3^steric tears — not a sham fit, 
but a true convulsive agony of sobbing. 
All the world of Mount street, including 
her own servants, had heard the accusa- 
tion against her. D uring the whole morn- 
ing she had been wishing that she had 
never seen the diamonds ; but now it Avas 
almost impossible that she should part 
with them. xVnd yet they were like a 
load upon her chest, a load as heavy as 
though she Avas compelled to sit Avith the 
iron box on her lap day and night. In 
her sobbing she felt the thing under her 
feet and knew that she could not get rid 
of it. She hated the box, and yet she 
must cling to it noAV. She Avas thorough- 
ly ashamed of the box, and yet she must 
seem to take a pride in it. She was hor- 
ribly afraid of the box, and yet she must 
keep it in her OAvn very bedroom. And 
Avhat should she say about the box now 
to jNIiss Macnulty, who sat by her side, 
stiff and scornful, offering her smelling- 
bottles, but not ofiering her sympathy? 
“ My dear,” she said at last, “ that hor- 
rid man has quite upset me.” 

“ I don’t wonder that you should be 
upset,” said Miss Macnulty. 

“ And so unjust, too — so false — so — so 

— so They are my OAA'n as much as 

that umbrella is yours. Miss Macnulty.” 

“ I don’t knoAV,” said Miss Macnulty. 

“ But I tell you,” said Lizzie. 

“ What I mean is, that it is such a pity 
there should be a doubt.” 

‘ ‘ There is no doubt, ’ ’ said Lizzie ; ‘ ‘ how 
dare you say there is a doubt ? My cou- 
sin, ]Mr. Greystock, says that there is not 
the slightest doubt. He is a barrister, 
and must know better than an attorney 
like that Mr. CamperdoAvn.” By this 
time they Avere at the Euston Square sta- 
tion, and then there Avas more trouble 


with the box. The footman struggled 
with it into the waiting-room, and the 
porter struggled with it from the waiting- 
room to the carriage. Lizzie could not 
but look at the porter as he carried it, and 
she felt sure that the man had been told 
of its contents and was struggling with the 
express vieAV of adding to her annoyance. 
The same thing happened at Carlisle, 
Avhere the box Avas carried up into Lizzie's 
bedroom by the footman, and where she 
Avas convinced that her treasure had be- 
come the subject of conversation for the 
whole house. In the morning people 
looked at her as she walked doAvn the long 
platform Avith the box still struggling be- 
fore her. She almost wished that she 
had undertaken its carriage herself, as 
she thought that even she could have man 
aged Avith less outward show of effort. 
Her OAvn servants seemed to be in league 
against her, and jMiss Macnulty had never 
before been so generally unpleasant. Poor 
Miss Macnulty, who had a conscientious 
idea of doing her duty, and Avho alAAmys 
attempted to give an adequate return for 
the bread she ate, could not so far over- 
come the effect cf !Mr. Camperdown’s 
visit as to speak on any subject Avithout 
being stiff and hard. And she suffered, 
too, from the box, to such a degree that 
she turned over in her mind the thought 
of leaving Lizzie if any other possible 
home might be found for her. Who 
would willingly live Avith a woman Avho 
ahvays travelled about with a diamond 
necklace worth ten thousand pounds, lock- 
ed up in an iron safe — and that necklace 
not her own property? 

But at last Lady Eustace, and Miss 
Macnulty, and the servants — and the iron 
box — reached Portray Castle in safety. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

‘ianthe’s soul.” 

Lady Eustace had been rather cross on 
the journey down to Scotland, and had al- 
most driven the unfortunate Macnulty to 
think that Lady LinlithgoAV or the work- 
house Avould be better than this young tj’- 
i-ant ; but on her arrival at her own house 
she was for a while all smiles and kind- 
ness. During the journey she had been 
angry without thought, but Avas almost 
entitled to be excused for her anger. - 
Could Miss Macnulty have realized the 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


9V 


amount of oppression inflicted on her pa- 
troness by the box of diamonds, she would 
have forgiven anything. Hitherto there 
had been some secrecy, or at any rate 
some privacy, attached to the matter; but 
now that odious lawj’er had discussed the 
matter aloud, in the very streets, in the 
presence of servants, and Lady Eustace 
had felt that it was discussed also by every 
porter on the railway from London down 
to Troon, the station in Scotland at which 
her own carriage met her to take her to 
her own castle. The night at Carlisle had 
been terrible to her, and the diamonds had 
never been for a moment off her mind. 
Perhaps the worst of it all was that her 
own man-servant and maid-servant had 
heard the claim which had been so vio- 
lently made by Mr. Camperdown. There 
are people in that resjject very fortunately 
circumstanced, whose servants, as a mat- 
ter of course, know all their aflairs, have 
an interest in their concerns, sympathize 
with their demands, feel their wants, and 
are absolutely at one with them. But in 
such cases the servants are really known, 
and are almost as completely a part of the 
family as the sons and daughters. There 
may be disruptions and quarrels ; causes 
may arise for ending the existing condition 
of things ; but while this condition lasts 
the servants in such households are for 
the most part only too well inclined to 
fight the battles of their employers. Mr. 
Binns, the butler, would almost foam at 
the mouth if it were suggested to him that 
the plate at Silvercup Hall was not the 
undoubted property of the old squire ; 
and Mrs. Pouncebox could not be made to 
believe, by any amount of human evi- 
dence, that the jewels which her lady has 
worn for the last fifteen years are not her 
ladyship’s very own. Binns would fight 
for the plate, and so would Pouncebox for 
the jewels, almost till they were cut to 
pieces. The preservation of these treas- 
ures on behalf of those who paid them 
their wages and fed them, who occasion- 
ally scolded them, but always succored 
them, would be their point of honor. No 
torture would get the key of the cellar 
from Binns ; no threats extract from 
Pouncebox a secret of the toilet. But 
poor Lizzie Eustace had no Binns and no 
Pouncebox. They are plants that grow 
slowly. There was still too much of the 
mushroom about Lady Eustace to permit 
of her possessing such treasures. Her 

7 


footman was six feet high, was not bad- 
looking, and was called Thomas. She 
knew no more about him, and was far too 
wise to expect sympathy from him, or 
other aid than the work for which she 
paid him. Her own maid was somewhat 
nearer to her ; but not much nearer. The 
girl’s name was Patience Crabstick, and 
she could do hair well. Lizzie knew but 
little more of her than that. 

Lizzie considered herself to be still en 
gaged to be married to Lord Fawn, but 
there was no sympathy to be had in that 
quarter. Frank Greystock might be in- 
duced to S3’mpathize with her, but hardly 
after the fashion which Lizzie desired. 
And then sympathy in that direction 
would be so dangerous should she decide 
upon going on with the Fawn marriage. 
For the i^resent she had quarrelled with 
Lord Fawn ; but the very bitterness of 
that quarrel, and the decision with -which 
her betrothed had declared his intention 
of breaking off the match, made her the 
more resolute that she would marry him. 
During her journey to Portray she had 
again determined that he should be her 
husband ; and, if so, advanced sympathy 
— sympathy that would be pleasantly ten- 
der with her cousin Frank — would be dan- 
gerous. She would be quite willing to 
accept even Miss Macnulty’s sympathy ii 
that humble lady would give it to her ol 
the kind she wanted. She declared to 
herself that she could pour herself out on 
Miss Macnulty’s bosom, and mingle her 
tears even with Miss Macnulty’s if only 
Miss Macnulty would believe in her. If 
Miss Macnulty would be enthusiastic 
about the jewels, enthusiastic as to the 
wickeune.ss of Lord Fawn, enthusiastic in 
praising Lizzie herself, Lizzie — so she told 
herself— would have showered all the 
sweets of female friendship even on Miss 
Macnulty’s head. But Miss Macnulty 
was as hard as a deal board. She did as 
she was bidden, thereby earning her 
bread. But there was no tenderness in 
her ; no delicacy ; no feeling ; no compre- 
hension. It was thus that Lady Eustace 
judged her humble companion; and in 
one respect she judged her rightly. Miss 
Macnulty did not believe in Lady Eustace, 
and was not sufficiently gifted to act up to 
a belief which she did not entertain. 

Poor Lizzie ! The world, in judging 
of people who are false, and bad, and self- 
ish, and prosperous to outward appear- 


98 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


ances, is apt to be hard upon them, and 
to forget the punishments which generally 
accompany such faults. Lizzie Eustace 
was very false, and bad, and selfish, and, 
we may say, very prosperous also ; but in 
the midst of all she was thoroughly un- 
comfortable. She was never at ease. 
There was no green spot in her life with 
which she could be contented. And 
though, after a fashion, she knew herself 
to be false and bad, she was thoroughly 
convinced that she was ill-used by every- 
body about her. She was being very bad- 
ly treated by Lord Fawn ; but she flat- 
tered herself that she would be able to 
make Lord Fawn know more of her char- 
acter before she had done with him. 

Portray Castle was really a castle, not 
simply a country mansion so called, but a 
stone edifice with battlements and a round 
tower at one corner, and a gate which 
looked as if it might have had a portcullis, 
and narrow windows in a portion of it, 
and a cannon mounted upon a low roof, 
and an excavation called the moat, but 
which was now a fantastic and somewhat 
picturesque garden, running round two 
sides of it. In very truth, though a por- 
tion of the castle was undoubtedly old and 
had been built when strength was needed 
for defence and probably for the custody of 
booty, the battlements, and the round 
tower, and the awe-inspiring gateway had 
all been added by one of the late Sir Flo- 
rians. But the castle looked like^ a cas- 
tle, and was interesting. As a house it 
was not particularly eligible, the castle 
’form of domestic architecture being exi- 
gent in its nature, and demanding that 
space, which in less ambitious houses can 
be applied to comfort, shall be surren- 
dered to magnificence. There was a great 
hall, and a fine dining-room, with plate- 
glass windows looking out upon the sea ; 
but the other sitting-rooms were insignifi- 
cant, and the bedrooms were here and 
there, and were for the most part small 
and dark. That, however, which Lizzie 
had appropriated to her own use was a 
grand chamber, looking also out upon the 
open sea. 

The castle stood upon a blufl* of land, 
with a fine prospect of the Firth of Clyde, 
and with a distant view of the Isle of 
Arran. When the air was clear, as it 
often is clear there, the Arran hills could 
be seen from Lizzie’s window, and she 
was proud of talking of the prospect. In 


other respects, perhaps, tlie castle was 
somewhat desolate. There were a few 
stunted trees around it, but timber had 
not prospered there. There was a grand 
kitchen garden, or rather a kitchen gar- 
den which had been intended to be grand ; 
but since Lizzie’s reign had been com- 
menced, the grandeur had been neglected. 
Grand kitchen gardens are expensive, and 
Lizzie had at once been firm in reducing 
the under-gardeners from five men to one 
and a boy. The head gardener had of 
course left her at once ; but that had not 
broken her heart, and she had hired a 
modast man at a guinea a week instead of 
a scientific artist, Avho was by no means 
modest, with a hundred and twenty pounds 
a year, and coals, house, milk, and all 
other horticultural luxuries. Though Liz- 
zie was prosperous 'and had a fine income, 
she w’as already aware that she could not 
keep up a town and country establishment 
and be a rich woman on four thousand a 
year. There was a flower garden and 
small shrubbery within the so-called 
moat ; but, otherwise, the grounds of 
Portray Castle were not alluring. The 
place was sombre, exposed, and in winter 
very cold ; and except that the expanse 
of sea beneath the hill on which stood the 
castle was fine and open, it had no great 
claim to praise on the score of scenery. 
Behind the castle, and away from the sea, 
the low mountains belonging to the estate 
stretched for some eight or ten miles ; and 
toward the further end of them, where 
stood a shooting-lodge, called alwa3’s The 
Cottage, the landscape became rough and 
grand. It was in this cottage that Frank 
Grej^stock was to be sheltered with his 
friend, when he came down to shoot what 
Lady Eustace had called her three annual 
grouse. 

She ought to have been happy and com- 
fortable. There will, of course, be some 
to say that a young widow should not be 
happy and comfortable — that she should 
be weeping her lost lord, and subject to 
the desolation of bereavement. But as 
the world goes now, young widows are 
not miserable ; and there is, perhapts, a 
growing tendency in society to claim from 
them 3’ear by j’ear still less of any misery 
that may be avoidable. Suttee propensi- 
ties of all sorts, from burning alive down 
to bombazine and hideous forms of cloth- 
ing, are becoming less and less popular 
among the nations, and women are begin- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


ning to learn that, let what misfortunes I 
will come upon them, it is well for them 
to be as happy as their nature will allow 
them to be. A woman may. thoroughly 
respect her husband, and mourn him truly, 
honestly, with her whole heart, and yet 
enjoy thoroughly the good things which 
he lias left behind for her use. It was 
not, at any rate, sorrow for the lost Sir 
Florian that made Lady Eustace uncom- 
fortable. She had her child. She had 
her income. She had her youth and 
beauty. She had Portray Castle. She 
had a new lover, and, if she chose to be 
quit of him, not liking him well enough 
for the purpose, she might undoubtedly 
have another whom she would like better. 
She had hitherto been thoroughly success- 
ful in her life. And yet she was unhappy. 
What was it that she, wanted? 

She had been a very clever child — a 
clever, crafty child ; and now she was be- 
coming a clever woman. Her craft re- 
mained with her ; but so keen was her 
outlook upon the world, that she was be- 
ginning to perceive that craft, let it be 
never so crafty, Avill in the long run miss 
its own object. She actually envied the 
simplicity of Lucy ^Morris, for whom she 
delighted to find evil names, calling her 
demure, a prig, a sly puss, and so on. 
But she could see — or half see — that Lucy 
with her simplicity was stronger than was 
she with her craft. She had nearly capti- 
vated Frank Grej'stock with her wiles, 
but without any wiles Lucy had captivat- 
ed him altogether. And a man captivated 
by wiles was only captivated for a time, 
whereas a man won by simplicity would 
be won for ever — if he himself were worth 
the winning. And this too she felt — that 
let her success be what it might, she could 
not be happy unless she could win a man’s 
heart. She had won Sir Florian’s, but 
that had been but for an hour — for a month 
or two. And then Sir Florian had never 
really won hers. Could not she be sim- 
ple ? Could not she act simplicity so well 
that the thing acted should be as power- 
ful as the thing itself ; perhaps even more 
powerful? Poor Lizzie Eustace! In 
thinking over all this she saw a great 
deal. It W81S wonderful that she should 
see so much and tell herself so many home 
truths. But there was one truth she 
could not see, and therefore could not tell 
it to herself. She had not a heart to give. 
It had become petrified during those les- 
sons of early craft in which she had taught 


9 {( 

herself how to get the better of Messrs. 
Harter & Benjamin, of Sir Florian Eus- 
tace, of Lady Linlithgow, and of Mr 
Camperdown. 

Her ladyship had now come down to her 
country house, leaving London and all its 
charms before the end of the season, actu- 
ated by various motives. In the first 
place, the house in Mount street was taken 
furnished, by the month, and the servants 
were hired after the same fashion, and the 
horses jobbed. Lady Eustace was al- 
ready sufficiently intimate with her ac- 
counts to know tliat she would save two 
hundred pounds by not remaining another 
month or three weeks in London, and suf- 
ficiently observant of her own affairs to 
have perceived that such saving was need- 
ed. And then it appeared to her 'that her 
battle with Lord Fawn could be better 
fought from a distance than at close quar- 
ters. London, too, was becoming abso- 
lutely distasteful to her. There were 
many things there that tended to make 
her unhappy, and so few that she could 
enjoy. She was afraid of Mr. Camper- 
down, and ever on the rack lest some 
dreadful thing should come upon her in 
respect of the necklace, some horrible pa- 
per served upon her from a magistrate, 
ordering her appearance at Newgate, or 
perhaps before the Lord Chancellor, or a 
visit from policemen who would be em- 
powered to search for and carry off the 
iron 'box. And then there was so little 
in her London life to gratify her 1 It is 
pleasant to win in a fight ; but to be al- 
ways fighting is not pleasant. Except in 
those moments, few and far between, in 
which she was alone with her cousin 
Frank — and perhaps in those other mo- 
ments in which she wore her diamonds — 
she had but little in London that she en- 
joyed. She still thought that a time 
would come when it would be otherwise . 
Under these infiuences she had actually 
made herself believe that she was sighing 
for the country, and for solitude ; for the 
wide expanse of her own bright waves — 
as she had called them — and for the rocks 
of dear Portray. She had told Miss Mac- 
nulty and Augusta Fawn that she thirsted 
for the breezes of Ayrshire, so that she 
might return to her books and her 
thoughts. Amid the whirl of London it 
was impossible either to read or to think. 
And she believed it too herself. She so 
believed it that on the first morning of her 
arrival she took a little volvTme in her 


100 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


pocket, containing Shelley’s “ Queen 
Alab,” and essayed to go down upon the 
rocks. She had actually breakfasted at 
nine, and was out on the sloping grounds 
below the castle before ten, having made 
some boast to Miss Macnulty about the 
morning air. 

She scrambled down, not very far down, 
but a little way beneath the garden gate, 
to a spot on which a knob of rock cropped 
out from the scanty herbage of the incipi- 
ent clilF. Fifty yards lower the real rocks 
began ; and, though the real rocks were 
not very rocky, not precipitous or even 
bold, and were partially covered with salt- 
fed mosses down almost to the sea, never- 
theless they justified her in talking about 
her rock-bound shore. The shore was 
hers, for her life, and it was rock-bound. 
This knob she had espied from her win- 
dows ; and, indeed, had been thinking of 
it for the last week, as a place appropri- 
ate to solitude and Shelley. She had 
stood on it before, and had stretched her 
arms with enthusiasm toward the just- 
visible mountains of Arran. On that oc- 
casion the weather, perhaps, had been 
cool ; but now a blazing sun was over- 
head, and when she had been seated half 
a minute, and “ Queen Mab ” had been 
withdraAvn from her pocket, she found 
that it would not do. It would not do 
even with the canopy she could make for 
herself with her parasol. So she stood up 
and looked about herself for shade ; for 
shade in some spot in which she could still 
look out upon “ her dear wide ocean with 
its glittering smile.” For it was thus 
that she would talk about the mouth of 
the Clyde. Shelter near her there was 
none.' The scrubby trees lay nearly half 
a mile to the right, and up the hill too. 
She had once clambered down to the actual 
shore, and might do so again. But she 
doubted that there would be shelter even 
there ; and the clambering up on that for- 
mer occasion had been a nuisance, and 
would be a worse nuisance now. Think- 
ing of all this, and feeling the sun keenly, 
she gradually retraced her steps to the 
garden within the moat, and seated her- 
self, Shelley in hand, within the summer- 
house. The bench was narrow, hard, and 
broken ; and there were some snails 
which discomposed her ; but, neverthe- 
less, she would make the best of it. Her 
darling “ Queen Mab ” must be read with- 
out the coarse, inappropriate, everj'-da}’’ 
surroundings of a drawing-room; audit 


was now manifest to her that unless she 
could get up much earlier in the morning 
or conmput to her reading after sunset, 
the ki^ of rock would not avail her. 

She began her reading, resolved that she 
would enjoy her poetry in spite of the 
narrow seat. She had often talked of 
“ Queen Mab,” and perhaps she thought 
she had read it. This, however, was in 
truth her first attempt at that work. 
“ How wonderful is Death, Death and his 
brother Sleep.” Then she half-closed the 
volume, and thought that she enjoyed the 
idea. Death — and his brother Sleep ! 
She did not know why they should be 
more wonderful than Action, or Life, or 
Thought ; but the words were of a nature 
which would enable her to remember 
them, and they would be good for quoting. 
“ Sudden arose lanthe’s soul ; it stood all- 
beautiful in naked purit3\” The name of 
lanthe suited her exactly. And the an- 
tithesis conveyed to her mind by naked 
purity struck her strongly, and she de- 
termined to learn the passage by heart. 
Eigh t or nine lines were printed separately , 
like a stanza, and the labor would not Be 
great, and the task, when done, wolild be 
complete. “ Instinct with inexpressible 
beauty and grace. Each stain of earthliness 
Had passed away, it reassumed Its native 
dignity, and stood Immortal amid ruin.” 
Which was instinct with beauty, the stain 
or the soul, she did not stop to inquire, 
and may be excused for not understanding. 
“Ah,” she exclaimed to herself, “how 
true it is ; how one feels it ; how it comes 
home to one! — ‘Sudden arose lanthe’s 
soul.’ ” And then she walked about the 
garden, repeating the words to herself, 
and almost forgetting the heat. “ ‘ Each 
stain of earthliness had passed away.’ 
Ha*; yes. They will j)ass aAvay and be- 
come instinct with beauty and grace.” A 
dim idea came upon her that when this 
happy time should arrive, no one would 
claim her necklace from her, and that 
the man at the stables Avould not be so 
disagreeably punctual in sending in his 
bill. “ ‘ All beautiful in naked purity! ’ ” 
What a tawdry world was this in which 
clothes and food and houses are necessary ! 
How perfectly that boy poet had under- 
stood it all. “ ‘ Immortal amid ruin ! ’ ” 
She liked the idea of the ruin almost as 
well as that of the immortality, and the 
stains quite as well as the purity. As 
immortality must come, and as stains 
were instinct with grace, why be afraid 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


101 


of ruin? But then, if people go wrong 
— at least women — they are not asked out 
anywhere ! “ ‘ Sudden arose lanthe’s 

soul; it stood all beautiful ” And 

so the piece was learned, and Lizzie felt 
that she had devoted her hour to poetry 
in a qpite rapturous manner. At any 
rate she had a bit to quote ; and though 
in truth she did not understand the exact 
bearing of the image, she had so studied 
her gestures and so modulated her voice, 
that she knew that she could be effective. 
She did not then care to carry her reading 
further, but returned with the volume into 
the house. Though the passage about 
lanthe's soul comes very early in the 
work, she was now quite familiar with 
tlie poem, and when in after days she 
spoke of it as a thing of beauty that she 
had made her own by long study, she ac- 
tually did not know that she was lying. 

she grew older, however, she, quickly 
became wiser, and was aware that in 
learning one passage of a poem it is expe- 
dient to select one in the middle or at the 
end. The world is so cruelly observant 
nowadays that even men and women who 
have not themselves read their “ Queen 
IMab ’ ’ will know from what part of the 
poem a morsel is extracted, and will not 
give you credit for a page beyond that 
Irom which your passage comes. 

After lunch Lizzie invited MLss Macnul- 
ty to sit at the open window of the draw- 
ing-room and look out upon the “ glitter- 
ing waves.” In giving Miss Macnulty 
her due we must acknoAvledge that, though 
she owned no actual cleverness herself, 
had no cultivated tastes, read but little, 
and that little of a colorless kind, and 
thought nothing of her hours but that she 
might get rid of them and live, yet ^he 
aad a certain power of insight, and could 
see a thing. Lizzie Eustace was utterly 
powerless to impose upon her. Such as 
Lizzie was, Miss Macnulty was willing to 
put up with her and accept her bread. 
The people whom she had known had 
been either worthless — as had been her 
own father, or cruel — like Lady Linlith- 
gow, or false — as was Lady Eustace. Miss 
Macnulty knew that w'orthlessne.ss, cruel- 
ty, and falseness had to be endured by 
such as she. And she could bear them 
w’ithout caring much about them ; not 
condemning them, even within her own 
heart, veiy heavily. But she was strange- 
ly deficient in this, that she could not call 
these qualiti&s by other names, even to the 


owners of them. She was unable to pre- 
tend to believe Lizzie’s rhapsodies. It 
was hardly conscience or a grand spirit of 
truth that actuated her, as much as a 
want of the courage needed for lying. 
She had not had the face to call old Lady 
Linlitligow kind, and therefore old Lady 
Linlithgow had turned her out of the 
house. When Lady Eustace called on her 
for sympathy, she had not courage enough 
to dare to attempt the bit of acting which 
would be necessary for sj^mpathetic ex- 
pression. She was like a dog or a child, 
and was unable not to be true. Lizzie 
Avas longing for a little mock sjmipathy — 
was longing to show off her Shelley, and 
was very kind to Miss Macnulty when she 
got the poor lady into the recess of the 
window. “ This is nice ; is it not? ” she 
said, as she spread her hand out through 
the open space toward the “ wdde expanse 
of glittering waves.” 

“Very nice, only it glares so,” said 
Miss Macnulty. 

“ Ah, I love the full warmth of the real 
summer. With me it always seems that 
the sun is needed to bring to true ripeness 
the fruit of the heart.” Nevertheless she 
had been much troubled both by the heat 
and by the midges when she tried to sit 
on the stone. “I alwaj’s think of those 
few glorious days wdiich 1 passed with my 
darling Florian at Naples ; days too glo- 
rious because they were so few.” Now’ 
;Miss ^Macnulty knew some of the history 
of those days and of their glory, and knew 
also how the widow had borne her loss. 

' “ I suppose the bay of Naples is fine,” 
she said. 

“It is not only the ba 3 \ There are 
scenes there which ravish you, only it is 
necessary that there should be some one 
wdth you that can understand you. 
‘Soul of lanthe ! ’ ” she said, meaning 
to apostrophize that of the deceased Sir 
Florian. “You have read ‘Queen 
Mab?’” 

“I don’t know that I ever did. If 1 
have, I have forgotten it.” 

“ Ah, you should read it. I know' 
nothing in the English language that 
brings home to one so often one’s own 
best feelings and aspirations. ‘ It stands 
all beautiful in naked purity,’ ” she con- 
tinued, still alluding to poor Sir Florian’s 
soul. “ ‘ Instinct W'ith inexpressible 
beauty and grace, each stain of earthli- 
ness had passed away.’ I can see him 
now in all his manly beauty, as we used 


102 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


io sit together by the hour, looking over 
the waters. Oh, Julia, the thing itself 
has gone, the earthly reality ; but the 
memory of it will live forever.” 

“ He was a very handsome man certain- 
ly,” said Miss Macnulty, finding herself 
forced to say something. 

“I see him now,” she went on, still 
gazing out upon the shining water. “ ‘ It 
reassumed its native dignity and stood 
primeval amid ruin.’ Is not that a glori- 
ous idea, gloriously worded?” She had 
forgotten one word and used a wrong epi- 
thet ; but it sounded just as well. Pri- 
meval seemed to her to be a very poetical 
word. 

“ To tell the truth,” said Miss Macnul- 
ty, “I never understand poetry when it is 
quoted unless I happen to know the pas- 
sage beforehand. I think I’ll go away 
from this, for the light is too much for my 
poor old eyes.” Certainly Miss ISIacnulty 
had fallen into a profession for which she 
was not suited 


CHAPITER XXH. 


sary it was that she should have some 
companion at the present emergency of 
her lif^, and therefore could not at once 
send ]\iiss Macnulty away ; but she would 
sometimes become very cross and would 
tell poor Macnulty that she was — a fool. 
Upon the whole, however, to be called a 
fool was less objectionable to Miss Mac- 
I nulty than were demands for sympathy 
which she did not know how to give. 

Those ten first days of August went very 
slowly with Lady Eustace. “ Queen 
Mab” got itself poked away, and was 
heard of no more. But there were other 
books. A huge box full of novels had 
come down, and Miss Macnulty was a 
great devourer of novels. If Lady Eus- 
tace would talk to her about the sorrows 
of the poorest heroine that ever saw her 
lover murdered before her eyes, and then 
come to life again with ten thousand 
pounds a year, for a period of three weeks 
— or till another heroine, who had herself 
been murdered, obliterated the former 
horrors from her plastic mind — Miss Mac- 
nulty could discuss the catastrophe with 
the keenest interest. And Lizzie, finding 
herself to be, as she told herself, unstrung. 


L.\Dy EUSTACE PROCURES A PONY FOR THE 
USE OF HER COUSIN. 

Lady Eustace could make nothing of 
Miss Macnulty in the way of sympathy, 
and could not bear her disappointment 
with patience. It was hardly to be ex- 
pected that she should do so. She paid a 
great deal for Miss Macnulty. In a mo- 
ment of rash generosity, and at a time 
when she hardly knew what money meant, 
she had promised Miss Macnulty seventy 
pounds for the first year and seventy for 
the second, should the arrangement last 
longer than a twelvemonth. The second 
year had been now commenced, and Lady 
Eustace was beginning to think that sev- 
enty pounds was a great deal of money 
when so very little was given in return. 
Lady Linlithgow had paid her dependent 
no fixed salary. And then there was the 
lady’s “keep” and first-class travelling 
when they went up and down to Scotland, 
and cab-fares in London when it was de- 
sirable that Miss Macnulty should absent 
herself. Lizzie, reckoning all up, and 
thinking that for so much her friend ought 
to be ready to discuss lanthe’s soul, or 
any other kindred subject, at a moment’s 
warning, would become angry and would 
tell herself that she was being swindled 
out of her money. She knew how neces- 


fell also into novel-reading. She had 
intended during this vacant time to 
master* the “Fairy Queen”; but the 
“Fairy Queen” fared even worse than 
“ Queen Mab ” ; and the studies of Por- 
tray Castle were confined to novels. For 
poor Macnulty, if she could only be left 
alone, this was well enough. To have 
her meals, and her daily walk, and her 
fill of novels, and to be left alone, was all 
that she asked of the gods. But it was 
not so with Lady Eustace. She asked 
much more than that, and was now thor- 
oughly discontented with her own idleness. 
She was sure that she could have read 
Spenser from sunrise to sundown, with no 
other break than an hour or two given to 
Shelley, if only there had been some one 
to sympathize with her in her readings. 
But there was no one, and she was very 
cross. Then there came a letter to her 
from her cousin, which for that morning 
brought some life back to the castle. “ I 
have seen Lord Fawn,” said the letter, 
‘ ‘ and I have also seen ^Ir. Camperdown. 
As it would be very hard to explain what 
took place at these interviews by letter, 
and as I shall be at Portray Castle on the 
20th, I will not make the attempt. We 
shall .go down by the night train, and I 
will get over to you as soon as I have 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS 


108 


dressed and had my breakfast. I suppose 
I can find some kind of a pony for the 
journey. The ‘ we ’ consists of myself 
and my friend Mr. Herriot, a man whom 
I think yon will like, if you will conde- 
scend to see him, though he is a l)aiTister 
like myself. You need express no imme- 
diate condescension in his favor, as I shall 
of course come over alone on Wednesday 
morning. Yours always affectionately, 
F. G.” 

The letter she received on the Sunday 
morning, and as the Wednesday named 
for Frank’s coming was the next Wednes- 
day, and was close at hand, she was in 
rather a better humor than she had dis- 
played since the poets had failed her. 
“ What a blessing it will be,” she said, 
“ to have somebody to speak to.” 

This was not complimentary, but ]\Iiss 
Macnulty did not want compliments. 
“ Yes, indeed,” she said. “ Of course 
you will be glad to see your cousin.” 

“I shall be glad to see anything in the 
shape of a man. I declare I have felt 
almost inclined to ask the minister from 
Craigie to elope with me.” 

“ He has got seven children,” said Miss 
Macnulty. 

“ Yes, poor man, and a wife, and not 
more than enough to live upon. I dare- 
say he would have come. By the by, I 
wonder whether there’s a pony about the 
place.” 

“ A pony ! ” Miss Macnulty of course 
supposed that it was needed for the pur- 
pose of the suggested elopement. 

“ Yes ; I suppose you know what a 
pony is ? Of course there ought to be a 
shooting pony at the cottage for these 
men. ;My poor head has so many things 
to work upon that I had forgotten it ; and 
you’re never any good at thinking of 
things.” 

“ I didn’t know that gentlemen wanted 
ponies for shooting.” 

“I wonder what you do know? Of 
course there must be a pony.” 

“ I suppose you’ll want two ? ” 

“ No, I shan’t. You don’t suppose t'oat 
men always go riding about. But I want 
one. What had I better do?” Miss 
Macnulty suggested that Gowran should 
be consulted. Now, Gowran was the 
steward, and baiKff, and manager, and 
factotum about the place, who bought a 
cow or sold one if occasion required, and 
saw that nobody stole anything, and who 
knew the boundaries of the farms, and all 


about the tenants, and looked after the 
pipes when frost came, and was an hon- 
est, domineering, hard-working, intelli- 
gent Scotchman, who had been brought 
up to love the Eustaces, and who hated 
his present mistreas with all his heart. 
He did not leave her service, having an 
idea in his mind that it was now the great 
duty of his life to save Portray from her 
ravages. Lizzie fully returned the com- 
pliment of the hatred, and was determined 
to rid herself of Andy Gowran ’s servicas 
as soon as possible. He had been called 
Andy by the late Sir Florian, and, though 
every one else about the place called him 
Mr. Gowran, Lady Eustace thought it 
became her, as the man’s mistress, to 
treat him as he had been treated by the 
late master. So she called him xVndy. 
But she was resolved to get rid of him, as 
soon as she should dare. There were 
things which it was essential that some- 
body about the place should know, and no 
one knew them but Mr. Gowran. Every 
servant in the castle might rob her, were 
it not for the protection afforded by Mr. 
Gowran. In that affair of the garden it 
was Mr. Gowran who had enabled her to 
conquer the horticultural Leviathan wlio 
had oppressed her, and who, in point of 
wages, had been a much bigger man than 
Mr. Gowran himself. She trusted Mr. 
Gowran and hated him, whereas Mr. 
Gowran hated her, and did not trust her. 
“ I believe you think that nothing can 
be done at Portray except by that man,” 
said Lady Eustace. 

“ He’ll know how much you ought to 
pay for the pony.” 

“ Yes, and get some brute not fit for my 
cousin to ride, on purpose, perhaps, to 
break his neck.” 

“ Then I should ask Mr. Macallum, the 
postmaster of Troon, for I have seen three 
or four very quiet-looking ponies standing 
in the carts at his door.” 

•‘Macnulty, if there ever was an idiot 
you are one,” said Lady Eustace, throw 
ing up her hands. “ To think that 1 
should get a pony for my cousin Frank 
out of one of the mail carts.” 

“ I daresay I am an idiot,” said Miss’ 
Macnulty, resuming her novel. 

Lady Eustace was, of course, obliged tc 
have recourse to Gowran, to whom she 
applied, on "the Monday morning. Not 
even Lizzie Eustace, on behalf of hei 
cousin Frank, would have dared to dis- 
turb Mr. Gowran with considerations re* 


104 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


specting a pony on the Sabbath. On the 
Monday morning she found Mr. Gowran 
superintending four boys and three old 
women, who were making a bit of her 
ladyship’s hay on the ground above the 
castle. The ground about the castle was 
poor and exposed, and her ladyship’s hay 
was apt to be late. “ Andy,” she said, 
“ 1 shall want to get a pony for the gen- 
tlemen who are coming to the cottage. 
It must be there by Tuesday evening.” 

“ A pownie, my leddie? ” 

“ Yes ; a pony. I suppose a pony may 
be purchased in Ayrshire, though of all 
places in the world it seems to have the 
fewest of the comforts of life.” 

“ Them as find it like that, my leddie, 
needn’t bide there.” 

“ Never mind. Y^ou will have the kind- 
ness to have a pony purchased and put 
into the stables of the cottage on Tues- 
day, afternoon. There are stables, no 
doubt.” 

“ Oh, ay, there’s shelter, nae doot, for 
mair pownies than they’s ride. When 
the cottage was biggit, my leddie, there 
was nae cause for sparing nowt.” Andy 
Gowran was continually throwing her, 
comparative poverty in poor Lizzie’s teeth, 
and there was nothing he could do which 
displeased her more. 

“ And I needn’t spare my cousin the 
use of a pony,” she said grandiloquently, 
but feeling as she did so that she was ex- 
posing herself before the man. “ You’ll 
have the goodness to procure one for him 
on Tuesday.” 

“ But there ain't aits nor yet fother, 
nor nowt for bedding down. An’d wha’s 
to tent the pownie ? There’s mair in keep- 
ing a pownie than your leddyship thinks. 
It’ll be a matter of auchten and saxpence 
a week, will a pownie.” Mr. Gowran, 
as he expressed his prudential scruples, 
put a very strong emphasis indeed on the 
sixpence. 

“ Very well. Let it be so.” 

“ And there’ll be the beastie to buy, 

me leddie. He’ll be a lump of money, 

my leddie. Pownies ain’t to be had for 
nowt in Ayrshire, as was ance, my leddie.” 

“ Of course I must pay for him.” 

“He’ll be a matter of ten pound, 

my leddie.” 

“ Very well.” 

“Or may be twal ; just as likely.” 
And Mr. Gowran shook his head at his 
mistress in a mast uncomfortable way. It 
was not strange that she should hate him. 


“ You must give the proper price — of 
course.” 

“ There ain’t no proper prices for pow- 
nies — as there is for jew ’Is and sich like.” 
If this was intended for sarcasm upon Lady 
Eustace in regard to her diamonds, Mr. 
Gowran ought to have been dismissed on 
the spot. In such a case no English jury 
would have given him his current wages. 
“And he’ll be to sell again, my led- 
die?” 

“ We shall see about that afterwards.” 

“ Ye’ll never let him eat his head olf there 
a’ the winter ! He’ll be to sell. And the 
gentles’ll ride him, maybe, ance across the 
hillside, out and Ixick. As to the grouse, 
they can’t cotch them with the pownie, for 
there ain’t none to cotch.” There had 
been two keepers on the mountains — men 
who were paid five or six shillings a week 
to look after the game in addition to their 
other callings, and one of these had been 
sent away, actually in obedience to Gow- 
ran ’s advice ; so that this blow was cruel 
and unmanly. He made it, too, as severe 
as he could by another shake of his head. 

“ Do you mean to tell me that my cou- 
sin cannot be supplied with an animal to 
ride upon ? ’ ’ 

“ My leddie, I’ve said nowt o’ the kind. 
There ain’t no useful animal as I kens the 
name and nature of as he can’t have in 
Ayrshire — for paying for it, my leddie ; 
horse, pownie, or ass, just whichever you 
please, my leddie. But there’ll be a sed- 
dle ” 

“ A what?” 

There can be no doubt that Gowran 
purposely slurred the word so that his mis- 
tress should not understand him. “ Sed- 
dles don’t come for now, my leddie, though 
it be Ayrshire.” 

“ I don’t understand what it is that you 
say, Andy.” 

“ A seddle, my leddie,” said he, shout- 
ing the word at her at the top of his 
voice — “ and a briddle. I suppose as 
your leddyship ’s cousin don’t ride bare- 
back up in Lunnon? ” 

“ Of course there must be the necessary 
horse-furniture,” said Lady Eustace, re- 
tiring to the castle. Andy Gowran had 
certainly ill-used her, and she swore that 
she would have revenge. Nor when she 
was informed on the Tuesday that an ade- 
quate pony had been hired for eighteen 
pence a day, saddle, bridle, groom, and 
all included, was her heart at all softened 
towards Mr. Gowran. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

FRANK GREYSTOCK’s FIRST VISIT TO POR- 
TRAY. 

H ad Frank Greystock known all that 
his cousin endured for his comfort, 
would he have been grateful? Women, 
when they are fond of men, do think much 
of men’s comfort in small matters, and 
men are apt to take the good things provid- 
ed almost as a matter of course. When 
Frank Greystock and Herriot reached the 
cottage about nine o’clock in the morn- 
ing, having left London over night by the 
limited mail train, the pony at once pre- 
sented itself to them. It was a little 
shaggy, black beast, with a boy almost as 
shaggy as itself, but they were both. good 
of their kind. “ Oh, you’re the laddie 
with the pownie, are you? ” said Frank, 
in answer to an announcement made to 
him by the boy. He did at once perceive 
that Lizzie had taken notice of the word 
in his note in which he had suggested 
that some means of getting over to Por- 
tray would be needed, and he learned 
from the fact that she was thinking of him 
and anxious to see him. 

His friend was a man a couple of years 
younger than himself, who had hitherto 
achieved no success at the bar, but who 
was nevertheless a clever, diligent, well- 
instructed man. He was what the world 
calls penniless, having nn income from 
his father just sufficient to keep him 
like a gentleman. He was not much 
known as a sportsman, his opportuni- 
ties for shooting not having been great ; 
but he dearly loved the hills and fresh 
air, and the few grouse which were — 
or were not — on Lady Eustace’s moun- 
tains would go as far with him as they 
would with any man. Before he had con- 
sented to come with Frank, he had spe- 
cially inquired whether there was a game- 
keeper, and it was not till he had been 
assured that there was no officer attached 
to the estate worthy of such a name, that 
he had consented to come upon his pres- 
ent expedition. “ I don’t clearly know 
what a gillie is,” he said in answer to one 
of Frank’s explanations. “ If a gillie 


means a lad without any breeches on, I 
don’t mind ; but I couldn’t stand a severe 
man got up in well-made velveteens, who 
would see through my ignorance in a mo- 
ment, and make known by comment the 
fact that he had done so.” Greystock 
had promised that there should be no se- 
verity, and Herriot had come. Greystock 
brought with him two guns, two fishing- 
rods, a man-servant, and a huge hamper 
from Fortnum and Mason’s. Arthur 
Herriot, whom the attorneys had not yet 
loved, brought some very thick boots, a 
pair of knickerbockers, together with 
Stone and Toddy’s “ Digest of the Common 
Law.” The best of the legal profession 
consists in this — that when you get fairly 
at work you may give over working. An 
aspirant must learn everything ; but a 
man may make his fortune at it, and know 
almost nothing. He may examine a wit- 
ness with judgment, see through a case 
with precision, address a jury with elo- 
quence, and yet be altogether ignorant of 
law. But he must be believed to be a very 
pundit before he will get a chance of exer- 
cising his judgment, his precision, or his 
eloquence. The men whose names are al- 
ways in the newspapers never look at 
their Stone and Toddy — care for it not at 
all — have their Stone and Toddy got up 
for them by their juniors when cases re- 
quire that reference shall be made to pre- 
cedents. But till that blessed time has 
come, a barrister who means success should 
carry his Stone and Toddy with him every- 
where. Greystock never thought of the 
law now, unless he had some special case 
in hand ; but Herriot could not afford to 
go out on a holiday without two volumes 
of Stone and Toddy’s Digest in his port- 
manteau. 

“ You won’t mind being left alone for 
the first morning? ” said Frank, as soon 
as they had finished the contents of one 
of the pots from Fortnum and Mason. 

“ Not in the least. Stone and Toddy 
will carry me through.” 

“ I’d go on the mountain if I were you, 
and get into a habit of steady loading.” 

“ Perhaps I will take a turn— just to 
find out how I feel in the knickerbockers 


106 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


At what time shall I dine if you don’t come 
back? ” 

“I shall certainly be here to dinner,” 
said Frank, “ unless the pony fails me or 
I get lost on the mountain.” Then he 
started, and Herriot at once went to work 
on Stone and Toddy, with a pipe in his 
mouth. He had travelled all night, and 
it is hardly necessary to say that in five 
minutes he was fast asleep. 

So also had Frank travelled all night, 
but the pony and the fresh air kept him 
awake. The boy had offered to go with 
him, but that he had altogether refused ; 
and, therefore, to his other cares was that 
of finding his way. The sweep of the 
valleys, however, is long and not abrupt, 
and he could hardly miss his road if he 
would only make one judicious turn 
through a gap in a certain wall which lay 
half way between the cottage and the cas- 
tle. lie was thinking of the work in hand, 
and he found the gap without difficulty. 
W hen through that he ascended the hill 
for two miles, and then the sea was before 
him, and Portray Castle, lying, as it 
seemed to him at that distance, close upon 
the sea-shore. “Upon my word, Lizzie 
has not done badly with herself,” he said 
almost aloud, as he looked down upon the 
fair sight beneath him, and round upon 
the mountains, and remembered that, for 
her life at least, it was all hers, and after 
her death would belong to her son. What 
more does any human being desire of such 
a property than that ? 

He rode down to the great doorway — 
the mountain track, which fell on to the 
road about half a mile from the castle, 
having been plain enough, and there he 
gave up the pony into the hands of no 
less a man than Mr. Gowran himself. 
Gowran had watched the pony coming 
down the mountain side, and had desired 
to see of what like was “ her leddj^ship’s ” 
cousin. In telling the whole truth of Mr. 
Gowran it must be acknowledged that he 
thought that his late master had made a 
very great mistake in the matter of his 
marriage. He could not imagine bad 
things enough of Lady Eustace, and al- 
most believed that she was not now, and 
hadn’t been before her marriage, any 
better than she should be. The name of 
Admiral Greystock, as having been the 
father of his mistress, had indeed reached 
his ears, but Andy Gowran was a suspi' 
cious man and felt no confidence even in an 


admiral— in regard to whom he heard 
nothing of his having, or having had, a 
wife. “ It’s my fer-rm opeenion she’s jist 
naebod}’- — and waur,” he had said more 
than once to his own wife, nodding his 
head with great emphasis at the last word, 
lie was very anxious, therefore, to see 
“ her leddyship’s ” cousin. Mr. Gowran 
thought that he knew a gentleman when 
he saw one. He thought, also, that he knew 
a lady, and that he didn’t see one when 
he was engaged with his mistress. Cous- 
in, indeed ! “ For the matter o’ that, ony 
man that comes the way may be ca’ed a 
coosin . ” So Mr. Gowran was on the grand 
sweep before the garden gate and took the 
pony from Frank’s hand. “ Is Lady Eus 
tace at home?” Frank asked. Mr. Gow 
ran perceived that Frank was a gentleman, 
and was disappointed. And Frank didn’t 
come as a man comes who calls himself by 
a false name, and pretends to be an honest 
cousin, when in fact he is something— oh, 
ever so wicked ! Mr. Gowran, who was 
a stern moralist, was certainly disap- 
pointed at Frank’s appearance. 

Lizzie was in a little sitting-room, 
reached by a long passage with steps in 
the middle, at some corner of the castle 
which seemed a long way from the great 
door. It was a cheerful little room, with 
chintz curtains, and a few shelves laden 
with brightly-bound books, which had 
been prepared for Lizzie immediately on 
her marriage. It looked out upon the sea, 
and she had almost taught herself to think 
that here she had sat with her adored 
Florian gazing in mutual ecstasy upon 
the “ wide expanse of glittering waves.” 
She was lying back in a low arm-chair as 
her cousin entered, and she did not rise to 
receive him. Of course she was alone, 
;Miss Macnulty having received a sugges- 
tion that it would be well that she should 
do a little gardening in the moat. “Well, 
Frank,” she said, with her sweetest smile, 
as she gave him her hand. She felt and 
understood the extreme intimacy which 
would be implied by her not rising to re- 
ceive him. As she could not rush into 
his arms, there was no device by which she 
could more clearly show to him how close 
she regarded his friendship. 

“ So I am at Portray Castle at last,” 
he said, still holding her hand. 

“Yes — at the dullest, dreariest, dead- 
liest spot in ’all Christendom, I think 
if Ayrshire be Christendom. But 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


107 


never mind about that now. Perhaps, as 
j-^ou are at the other side of the mountain 
at the cottage, we shall find it less dull 
here at the castle.” 

“ I thought you were to be so happy 
here ! ” 

“ Sit down and we’ll talk it all over by 
degrees. What will you have — breakfast 
or lunch?” 

“ Neither, thank you.” 

“ Of course you’ll stay to dinner? ” 

“ No, indeed. I’ve a man there at the 
cottage with me whb would cut his throat 
in his solitude.” 

“ Let him cut his throat ; but never 
mind now. As for being happy, women 
are never happy without men. I needn’t 
tell any lies to you, you know. What 
makes me sure that this fuss about mak- 
ing men and women all the same must be 
wrong is just the fact that men can get 
along without women, and women can’t 
without men. ]\Iy life has been a bur- 
den to me. But never mind. Tell me 
about my lord — my lord and master.” 

“ Lord Fawn ! ” 

“ AYho else? What other lord and 
master? My bosom’s own; my heart’s 
I:>est hope ; my spot of terra firma ; my 
cool running brook of fresh water ; my 
rock ; my love ; my lord ; my all. Is he 
alwaj’s thinking of his absent Lizzie? 
Does he still toil at Downing street? Oh, 
dear ; do you remember, Frank, when he 
told us that ‘ one of us must remain in 
town? ’ ” 

“ I have seen him.” 

“ So j^ou wrote me word.” 

“ And I have seen a very obstinate, pig- 
headed, but nevertheless honest and truth- 
speaking gentleman.” 

“ Frank, I don’t care twopence for 
his honesty and truth. If he ill-treats 
me .” Then she paused ; looking in- 

to his face, she had seen at once by the 
manner in which he had taken her badi- 
nage, without a smile, that it was neces- 
sary that she should be serious as to her 
matrimonial prospects. “ I suppose I had 
better let you tell your story,” she said, 
“ and I will sit still and listen.” 

“ He means to ill-treat you.” 

“ And you will let him? ” 

“You had better listen, as you prom- 
ised, Lizzie. He declares that the mar- 
riage must be off at once unless you will 
send those diamonds to Mr. Camperdown 
)T to the jewellers.” 


“ And by what law or rule does he jus- 
tify himself in a decision so monstrous ? 
Is he prepared to prove that the property 
is not my own?” 

“ If you ask me my opinion as a lawyer, 
I doubt whether any such proof can be 
shown. But as a man and a friend I do 
advise you to give them up.” 

“ Never.” 

“ You must, of course, judge for your- 
self, but that is my advice. You had 
better, however, hear my whole story.” 

“ Certainly,” said Lizzie. Her whole 
manner was now changed. She had ex- 
tricated herself from the crouching posi- 
tion in which her feet, her curl, her arms, 
her whole body had been so arranged as to 
combine the charm of her beauty with the 
charm of proffered intimacy. Her dress 
was such as a woman would wear to re- 
ceive her brother, and yet it had been 
studied. She had no gems about her but 
what she might well wear in her ordinary 
life, and yet the very rings on her fingers 
had not been put on without reference to 
her cousin Frank. Her position had been 
one of lounging ease, such as a woman 
might adopt when all alone, giving her- 
self all the luxuries of solitude ; but she 
had adopted it in special reference to 
cousin Frank. Now she was in earnest, 
with business before her ; and though it 
may be said of her that she could never 
forget her appearance in presence of a 
man whom she desired to please, her curl, 
and rings, and attitude were for the mo- 
ment in the background. She had seated 
herself on a common chair, with her hands 
upon the table, and was looking into 
Frank’s face with eager, eloquent, and 
combative eyes. She would take his law, 
because she believed in it ; but, as far as 
she could see as yet, she would not take 
his advice unless it were backed by his 
law. 

“ Mr. Camperdown,” continued Grej'- 
stock, “ has consented to prepare a case 
for opinion, though he wdll not agree that 
the Eustace estate shall be bound by that 
opinion.” 

“ Then what’s the good of it? ” 

“We shall at least know, all of us, 
what is the opinion of some lawyer quali- 
fied to understand the circumstances of 
the case.” 

“ Why isn’t your opinion as good as 
that of any lawyer? ” 

“ I couldn’t give an opinion ; not other- 


108 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


wise than as a private friend to you, which 
is worth nothing unless for your private 

guidance. Mr. Camperdown ” 

“I don’t care one straw for Mr. Cam- 
perdown.” 

“Just let me finish.” 

“ Oh, certainly ; and you mustn’t be 
angry with me, Frank. The matter is so 
much to me ; isn’t it? ” 

“ I won’t be angry. Do I look as if I 
were angry ? Mr. Camperdown is right. ’ ’ 
“ I dare say he may be what j^ou call 
right. Bat I don’t care about Mr. Cam- 
perdown a bit.” 

“ He has no power, nor has John Eus- 
tace any power to decide that the property 
which may belong to a third person shall 
be jeopardized by any arbitration. The 
third person could not be made to lose his 
legal right by any such arbitration, and 
his claim, if made, would still have to be 
tried.” 

“ Who is the third person, Frank? ” 

“ Your own child at present.” 

“ And will not he have it any way? ” 

“ Camperdown and John Eustace say 
that it belongs to him at present. It is a 
point that, no doubt, should be settled.” 

“ To whom do you say that it belongs? ” 
“ That is a question I am not prepared 
to answer.” 

“ To whom do you think that it be- 
longs? ” 

“ I have refused to look at a single pa- 
per on the subject, and my opinion is 
worth nothing. From what I have heard 
in conversation with Mr. CamiDcrdown 
and John Eustace, I cannot find that they 
make their case good.” 

“ Nor can I,” said Lizzie. 

“ A case is to be prepared for Mr. 
Dove.” 

“ Who is Mr. Dove? ” 

“ Mr. Dove is a barrister, and no doubt 
a very clever fellow. If his opinion be 
such as Mr. Camperdown expects, he will 
at once proceed against you at law for the 
immediate recovery of the necklace.” 

“ I shall be ready for him,” said Liz- 
zie, and as she spoke all her little feminine 
softnesses were for the moment laid aside. 

“ If Mr. Dove’s opinion be in your fa- 
vor ” 

“ Well,” said Lizzie, “ what then? ” 

“ In that case Mr. Camperdown, acting 
on behalf of John Eustace and young Flo- 
rian ” 

“ How dreadful it is to hear of my bit- 


terest enemy acting on behalf of my own 
child ! ” said Lizzie, holding up her hands 
piteously. “Well?” 

“ In that case Mr. Camperdown will 
serve you with some notice that the jew- 
els are not 5'ours, to part with them as 
you may please.” 

“ But they will be mine.” 

“ He says not ; but in such case he will 
content himself with taking steps which 
may prevent you from selling them.” 

“ Who says that I want to sell them? ” 
demanded Lizzie indignantly. 

“ Or from giving them away, say to 'a 
second husband.” 

“ How little they know me ! ” 

“ Now I have told you all about Mr. 
Camperdown.” 

“Yes.” 

“ And the next thing is to tell you 
about Lord Fawn.” 

“ That is everything. I care nothing 
for Mr. Camperdown ; nor yet for Mr. 
Dove — if that is his absurd name. Lord 
Fawn is of more moment to me, though, 
indeed, he has given me but little cause to 
say so.” 

“In the first place, I must explain to 
3^ou that Lord Fawn is very unhappy.” 

“ He may thank himself for it.” 

“ He is pulled this way and that, and is 
half distraught ; but he has stated with 
as much positive assurance as such a man 
can assume, that the match must be re- 
garded as broken off unless you will at 
once restore the necklace.” 

“He does?” 

“ He has commissioned me to give you 
that massage ; and it is my duty, Lizzie, 
as your friend, to tell you my conviction 
that he repents his, engagement.” 

She now rose from her chair and began 
to walk about the room. “ He shall not 
go back from it. lie shall learn that I am 
not a creature at his own disposal in that 
way. He shall find that I have some 
strength if you have none.” 

“ What would you have had me do? ” 

“ Taken him by the throat,” said Liz- 
zie. 

“ Taking by the throat in these daj's 
seldom forwards any object, unless the 
taken one be known to the police. I think 
Lord Fawn is behaving very badly, and I 
have told him so. No doubt he is under 
the influence of others — mother and sis- 
ters — who are not friendly to j’^ou.” 

“ False-faced idiots ! ” said Lizzie. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


109 


■ “ He himself is somewhat afraid of me 
— is much afraid of you — is afraid of what 
people will say of him ; and, to give him 
his due, is afraid also of doing what is 
wrong. He is timid, w^eak, conscientious, 
and wretched. If you have set your heart 
upon marrying him ” 

“ My heart ! ” said Lizzie scornfully. 

“ Or your mind, j’^ou can have him by 
simply sending the diamonds to the jew- 
ellers. AYhatever may be his wishes, in 
that case he will redeem his word.” 

“ Not for him or all that belongs to 
him! It wouldn’t be much. He’s just a 
pauper with a name.” 

“ Then your loss will be so much the 
less.” 

“ But what right has he to treat me so? 
Did 3^ou' ever before hear of such a thing? 
Why is he to be allowed to go back, with- 
out punishment, more than another? ” 

“ What punishment would you wish ? ” 

“ That he should be beaten within an 
inch of his life ; and if the inch were not 
there, I should not complain.” 

“ And I am to do it, to my absolute 
ruin and to your great injury? ” 

“ I think I could almost do it myself.” 
And Lizzie raised her hand as though 
there were some weapon in it. “ But, 
Frank, there must be something. You 
wouldn’t have me sit down and bear it. 
All the world has been told of the en- 
gagement. There must be some punish- 
ment.” 

“ You would not wish to have an action 
brought for breach of promise? ” 

“ I would wish to do whatever would 
hurt him most without hurting myself,” 
said Lizzie. 

“You won’t give up the necklace?” 
said Frank. 

“ Certainly not,” said Lizzie. “ Give 
it up for his sake — a man that I have al- 
ways despised ! ” 

“ Then you had better let him go.” 

“ I will not let him go. What, to be 
pointed at as the woman that Lord Fawn 
had jilted ? Never ! My necklace should 
be nothing more to him than this ring.” 
And she drew from her finger a little cir- 
clet of gold with a stone, for which she 
had owed Messrs. Harter and Benjamin 
five-and-thirty pounds till Sir Florian had 
settled that account for her. “ What 
cause can he give for such treatment ? ” 

“ He acknowledges that there Is no 
cau.se which he can state openly.” 


“ And I am to bear it? And it is you 
that tell me so? Oh, Frank ! ” 

“ Let us understand each other, Lizzie. 
I w'ill not fight him, that is, with pistols ; 
nor will I attempt to thrash him. It 
would be useless to argue whether public 
opinion is right or wrong; but public 
opinion is now so much opposed to that 
kind of thing that it is out of the ques- 
tion. I should injure your position and 
destroy my own. If you mean to quarrel 
with me on that score, you had better say 
so.” 

Perhaps at that moment he almost 
wished that she Avould quarrel with him, 
but she was otherwise disposed. “ Oh, 
Frank,” she said, “ do not desert me.” 

“ I will not desert you.” 

“ You feel that I am ill-u^ed, Frank.” 

“ I do. I think that his conduct is in- 
excusable.” 

“And there is to be no punishment? ’’ 
she asked with that strong indignation at 
injustice which the unjust always feel 
when they are injured. 

“ If you carry yourself well, quietly and 
with dignity, the world will punish him.” 

“ I don’t believe a bit of it. I am not a 
Patient Grizel who can content mj^self 
with heaping benefits on those who injure 
me, and then thinking that they are coals 
of fire. Lucy Morris is one of that sort.” 
Frank ought to have resented the attack, 
but he did not. “ I have no such tame 
virtues. I’ll tell him to his face what he 
is. I’ll lead him such a life that he shall 
be sick of the very name of a necklace.” 

“You cannot ask him to marry you.” 

“ I will. What, not ask a man to keep 
his promise when you are engaged to him? 
I am not going to be such a girl as that.” 

“Do you love him, then? ” 

“Love him! I hate him. I always 
despised him, and now I hate him.” 

“ And yet you would marry him?” 

“ Not for worlds, Frank. No. Be- 
cause you advised me I thought that I 
would do so. Yes, you did, Frank. But 
for you I would never have dreamed of 
taking him. You know, Frank, how it 
was, when you told me of him and 
wouldn’t come to me yourself.” Now 
again she was sitting close to him and had 
her hand upon his arm. “No, Frank ; even 
to please you I could not marry him now. 
But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. He shall 
ask me again. In spite of those idiots at 
Richmond he shall kneel at my feet, neck- 


110 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


lace or no necklace ; and then — then I’ll 
tell him what I think of him. Marry 
him ! I would not touch him with a pair 
of tongs.” As she said this she was hold- 
ing her cousin fast by the hand. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

SHOWING WHAT FRANK GREYSTOCK THOUGHT 
ABOUT MARRIAGE. 

It had not been much after noon when 
Frank Greystock reached Portray Castle, 
and it was very nearly five when he left 
it. Of course he had lunched with the 
two ladies, and as the conversation before 
lunch had been long and interesting, they 
did, not sit down till near three. Then 
Lizzie had tal^en him out to show him the 
grounds and garden, and they had clam- 
bered together down to the sea-beach. 
“ Leave me here,” she had said when he 
insisted on going because of his friend at 
the cottage. When he suggested that she 
would want help to climb back up the 
rocks to the castle, she shook her head as 
though her heart was too full to admit of 
a consideration so trifling. ‘ ‘ My thoughts 
flow more freely here with the surge of 
the water in my ears than they will with 
that old woman droning to me. I come 
here often, and know every rock and every 
stone.” That was not exactly true, as 
she had never been down but once before. 
“ You mean to come again.” He told her 
that of course he should come again. “ I 
will name neither day nor hour. I have 
nothing to take me away. If I am not at 
the castle, I shall be at this spot. Good- 
by, Frank.” He took her in his arms 
and kissed her, of course as a brother ; 
and then he clambered up, got on his 
pony, and rode away. “ I dinna ken just 
wdiat to mak’ o’ him,” said Gowran to 
his wife. “ May be he is her coosin ; but 
coosins are nae that sib that a weeder is 
to be hailed aboot jist ane as though she 
were ony quean at a fair.” From which 
it may be inferred that Mr. Gowran had 
watched the pair as they were descending 
together toward the shore. 

Frank had so much to think of, riding 
back to the cottage, that when he came to 
the gap, instead of turning round along 
the wall down the valley, he took the 
track right on across the mountain and 
lost his way. He had meant to be back 
at the cottage by three or four, and yet 


had made his visit to the castle so long 
that without any losing of his way he 
could not have been there before seven. 
As it was, when that hour arrived, he was 
up on the top of a hill and could again see 
Portray Castle clustering down close upon 
the sea, and the thin belt of trees and the 
shining water beyond ; but of the road to 
the cottage he knew nothing. For a mo- 
ment he thought of returning to Portray,' 
till he had taught himself to perceive that 
the distance was much greater than it had 
been from the spot at which he had first 
seen the castle in the morning ; and then 
he turned his pony round and descended 
on the other side. 

His mind was very full of Lizzie Eus- 
tace, and full also of Lucy Morris. If it 
were to be asserted here that a young 
man may be perfectly true to a first young 
woman while he is falling in love with a 
second, the readers of this story would 
probably be offended. But undoubtedly 
many men believe themselves to be quite 
true while undergoing this process, and 
many young women expect nothing else 
from their lovers. If only he will come 
right at last, they are contented. And if 
he don’t come right at all, it is the way of 
the Avorld, and the game has to be played 
over again. Lucy Morris, no doubt, had 
lived a life too retired for the learning of 
such useful forbearance, but Frank Grey- 
stock was quite a proficient. He still con- 
sidered himself to be true to Lucy Morris, 
with a truth seldom found in this degener- 
ate age — with a truth to which he intend- 
ed to sacrifice some of the brightest hopes 
of his life — with a truth Avhich, after much 
thought, he had generously preferred to 
his ambition. Perhaps there was found 
some shade of regret to tinge the merit 
which he assumed on this head, in respect 
of the bright things which it would be 
necessary that he should abandon ; but if 
so, the feeling only assisted him in defend- 
ing his present conduct from any asper- 
sions his conscience might bring against 
it. He intended to marrj^ Lucy Morris, 
without a shilling, without position, a 
girl Avho had earned her bread as a gov 
erness, simply because he loved her. It 
was a wonder to himself that he, a law- 
yer, a man of the world, a member of Par- 
liament, one who had been steeped up to 
his shoulders in the ways of the world, 
should still be so pure as to be capable of 
such a sacrifice. But it was so ; and the 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Ill 


sacrifice would undoubtedly be made some 
day. It would be absurd in one conscious 
of such high merit to be afraid of the or- 
dinary social incidents of life. It is the 
debauched broken drunkard who should 
become a teetotaller, and not the healthy, 
hard-working father of a family who never 
drinks a drop of wine till dinner-time. 
He need not be afraid of a glass of cham- 
pagne when, on a chance occasion, he goes 
to a picnic. Frank Greystock was now 
going to his picnic ; and, though he meant 
to be true to Lucy Morris, he had enjoyed 
his glass of champagne with Lizzie Eus- 
tace under the rocks. He was thinking a 
good deal of his champagne when he lost 
his way. 

What a wonderful woman was his cous- 
in Lizzie, and so unlike any other girl he 
had ever seen ! How full she was of 
energy, how courageous, and, then, how 
beautiful ! No doubt her special treat- 
ment of him was sheer flattery. He told 
liimself that it was so. But, after all, 
flattery is agreeable. That she did like 
liim better than anybody else was proba- 
ble. He could have no feeling of the in- 
justice he might do to the heart of a wo- 
man who at the very moment that she was 
expressing her partiality for him was also 
expressing her anger that another man 
would not consent to marry her. And 
then women who have had one husband 
already are not like young girls in re- 
spect to their hearts. So at least thought 
Frank Greystock. Then he remembered 
the time at which he had intended to ask 
Lizzie to be his wife — the very day on 
which he would have done so had he been 
able to get away from that early division 
at the House — and he asked himself 
whether he felt any regret on that score. 
It would have been very nice to come down 
to Portray Castle as to his own mansion 
after the work of the courts and of the 
session. Had Lizzie become his wife, her 
fortune would have helped him to the 
very highest steps beneath the throne. At 
present he was almost nobody — because 
he was so poor, and in debt. It was so, 
undoubtedly ; but what did all that mat- 
ter in comparison with the love of Lucy 
Morris? A man is bound to be true. And 
he would be true. Only, as a matter of 
course, Lucy must wait. 

When he had first kissed his cousin up 
in London, she suggested that the kiss 
was given as by a brother, and asserted 


that it was accepted as by a sister. He 
had not demurred, having been allowed 
the kiss. Nothing of the kind had been 
said under the rocks to-day ; but then that 
fraternal arrangement, wdien once made 
and accepted, remains, no doubt, in force 
for a long time. He did like his cousin 
Lizzie. He liked to feel that he could be 
her friend, with the power of domineering 
over her. She, also, was fond of her own 
way, and loved to domineer herself; but 
the moment that he suggested to her that 
there might be a quarrel, she was reduced 
to a prayer that he would not desert her. 
Such a friendship has charms for a young 
man, especially if the lady .be pretty. As 
to Lizzie’s prettiness, no man or woman 
could entertain a doubt. And she had a 
way of making the most of herself, which 
it was very hard to resist. Some young 
women, when they clamber over rocks, 
are awkward, heavy, unattractive, and 
troublesome. But Lizzie had at one mo- 
ment touched him as a fairy might have 
done ; had sprung at another from stone 
to stone, requiring no help ; and then, on 
a sudden, had become so powerless that 
he had been forced almost to carry her in 
his arms. That, probably, must have 
been the moment which induced Mr. Gow- 
ran to liken her to a quean at a fair. 

But, undoubtedly, there might be trou- 
ble. Frank was sufficiently experienced 
in the ways of the world to know that 
trouble would sometimes come from young 
ladies who treat young men like their 
brothers, when those young men are en- 
gaged to other young ladies. The other 
young ladies are apt to disapprove of 
brothers who are not brothers by absolute 
right of birth. He knew also that all the 
circumstances of his cousin’s position 
would-make it expedient that she sliould 
marry a second husband. As he could 
not be that second husband — that matter 
was settled, whether for good or bad — 
was he not creating trouble, both for her 
and for himself? Then there arose in his 
mind a feeling, very strange, but by no 
means uncommon, that prudence on his 
part would be mean, because by such 
prudence he would be securing safety for 
himself as well as for her. What he was 
doing was not only imprudent, but wrong 
also. He knew that it was so. But Liz- 
zie Eustace Avas a pretty young woman ; 
and when a pretty young woman is in 
the case, a man is bound to think neither 


112 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


of what is prudent nor of what is right. 
Such was — perhaps his instinct rather 
than his theory. For her sake, if not for 
his own, he should have abstained. She 
was his cousin, and was so placed in the 
world as specially to require some strong 
hand to help her. He knew her to be, in 
truth, heartless, false, and greedy ; but 
she had so lived that even yet her future 
life might be successful. He had called 
himself her friend as well as cousin, and 
was bound to protect her from evil, if pro- 
tection were possible. But he was adding 
to all her difficulties, because she pre- 
tended to be in love with him. He knew- 
that it was pretence; and yet, because 
she wms pretty, and because he was a man, 
he could not save her from herself. “ It 
doesn’t do to be waser than other men,” 
he said to himself as he looked round 
about on the bare hill-side. In the 
mean time he had altogether lost his 
way. 

It was between nine and ten when he 
reached the cottage. Of course 3’’Ou 
have dined? ” said Herriot. 

“ Not a bit of it. I left before five, be- 
ing sure that I could get here in an hour 
and a half. I have been riding up and 
down these dreary hills for nearly five 
hours. You have dined? ” 

“ There was a neck of mutton and a 
chicken. She said the neck of mutton 
would keep hot best, so I took the chick- 
en. I hope you like lukewarm neck of 
mutton? ” 

“lam hungry enough to eat any tiling ; 
not but what I had a first-rate luncheon. 
What have you done all day ? ” 

“ Stone and Toddy,” said Herriot. 

“ Stick to that. If anything can pull 
you through, Stone and Toddy will. I 
lived upon them for two years.” 

“ Stone and Toddy, with a little tobac- 
co, have been all my comfort. I began, 
however, by sleeping for a few hoiirs. 
Then I went upon the mountains.” 

“ Did you take a gun?” 

“ I took it out of the case, but it 
didn’t come right, and so I left it. A 
man came to me and said that he was the 
keeper.” 

“ He’d have put the gun right for 
you.” 

“ I was too bashful for that. I per- 
suaded him that I wanted to go out 
alone and see what birds there were, and 
at last I induced him to stay here with 


the old woman. He’s to be at the cottage 
at nine to-morrow. I hope that is all 
right.” 

In the evening, as they smoked and 
drank whiskey and water — probably sup- 
posing that to be correct in Ayrshire — 
they w^ere led on by the combined warmth 
of the spirit, the tobacco, and their friend- 
ship, to talk about women. Frank, some 
month or six weeks since, in a moment of 
soft confidence, had told his friend of his 
engagement with Lucy Morris. Of Lizzie 
Eustace he had spoken only as of a cous- 
in whose interests were dear to him. Her 
engagement with Lord Fawn was known 
to all London, and was, therefore, known 
to Arthur Herriot. Some distant rumor, 
however, had reached him that the course 
of true love was not running quite smooth, 
and therefore on that subject he would 
not speak, at any rate till Greystock 
should first mention it. “How odd it is 
to find two women living all alone in a 
greaLhouse like that,” Frank had said. 

“ Because so few women have the 
means to live in large houses, unless they 
live with fiithers or husbands.” 

“ The truth is,” said Frank, “ that 
women don’t do well alone. There is al- 
ways a savor of misfortune — or, at least, 
of melancholy — about a household which 
has no man to look after it. With us, 
generally, old maids don’t keep houses, 
and wddows marry again. No doubt it 
was an unconscious appreciation of this 
feeling wdiich brought about the burning 
of Indian widow's. There is an unfitness 
in women for solitude. A female Prome- 
theus, even without a vulture, would indi- 
cate cruelty w'orse even than Jove’s. A 
w'oman should marry— once, tw'ice, and 
thrice if necessary.” 

“Women can’t marry without men to 
marry them.” 

Frank Grej’^stock filled his pipe as he 
went on with his lecture. “ That idea as 
to the greater number of w'omen is all non- 
sense. Of course we are speaking of our 
own kind of men and women, and the dis- 
proportion of the numbers in so small a 
division of the population amounts to 
nothing. We have no statistics to. tell us 
whether there be any such disproportion 
in classes where men do not die early from, 
overwork.” 

“ More females are born than males.” 

“ That’s more than I know. As one of 
the legislators of the country I am pre- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


113 


pared to state that statistics are al\va3’s 
false. What we have to do is to induce 
men to many. We can’t do it by stat- 
ute.” 

“ No, thank God.” 

“ Nor 3"et by fashion.” 

“ Fashion seems to be going the other 
waj',” said Herriot. 

“ It can be only done by education and 
conscience. Take men of forty all round 
— men of our own class — you believe that 
the married men are happier than the un- 
married? I want an answer, you know, 
just for the sake of the argument.” 

“ I think the married men are the hap- 
pier. But 3"ou speak as the fox who had 
lost his tail ; or, at any rate, as a fox in 
the act of losing it.” 

“Nevermind my tail. If morality in 
life and enlarged affections are conducive 
to happiness, it must be so.” 

“ Short commons and unpaid bills are 
conducive to misery. That’s what I 
should say if I wanted to oppose you.” 

“I never came across a man willing to 
speak the truth who did not admit that, 
in the long run, married men are the hap- 
pier. As regards women, there isn’t even 
ground for an argument. And yet men 
don’t marry.” 

“ They can’t.” 

“ You mean there isn’t food enough in 
the world. ’ ’ 

“ The man fears that he won’t get 
enough of what there is for his wife and 
family.” 

“ The laborer with twelve shillings a 
week has no such fear. And if he did 
marry, the food would come. It isn’t that. 
The man is unconscientious and ignorant 
as to the sources of true happiness, and 
won’t submit himself to cold mutton and 
three clean shirts a week — not because 
he dislikes mutton and dirty linen himself, 
but because the world saj^s they are 
vulgar. That’s the feeling that keeps you 
from marrying, Herriot.” 

“ As for me,” said Herriot, “ I regard 
myself as so placed that I do not dare to 
think of a j'oung woman of my own rank 
except as a creature that must be foreign 
to me. I cannot make such a one my 
friend as I would a man, because I should 
be in love with her at once. And I do 
not dare to be in love because I w'ould not 
see a wife and children starve. I regard 
my position as one of enforced monasti- 
cism, and mj^self as a monk under the 
8 


cruellest compulsion. I often wish that 
I had been brought up as a journeyman 
hatter.” 

“ Why a hatter? ” 

“ I’m told it’s an active sort of life. 
You’re fast asleep, and I w'as just now, 
when 3’^ou were preaching. We’d better 
go to bed. Nine o’clock for breakfast, I 
suppose ? ’ ’ 



CHAPTER XXV. 

MR. dove’s opinion. 


Mr. Thomas Dove, familiarly known 
among club-men, attornej's’ clerks, and, 
perhaps, even among judges when very 
far from their seats of judgment, as Tur- 
tle Dove, W'as a counsel learned in the law. 
He w^as a counsel so learned in the law, 
that there was no question within the 
limits of an attorney’s capability of putting 
to him that he could not answer with the 
aid of his books. And when he had once 
given an opinion, all Westminster could 
not move him from it — nor could Chancery 
Lane and Lincoln’s Inn and the Temple 
added to Westminster. . When JMr. Dove 
had once been positive, no man on earth 
was more positive. It behooved him, there- 
fore, to be right when he was positive ; 
and though, whether wrong or right, he 
was equally stubborn, it must be acknowl- 
edged that he was seldom proved to be 
wrong. Consequently the attorneys be- 
lieved in him, and he prospered. He was 
a thin man, over fifty years of age, very 
full of scorn and wu-ath, impatient of a 
fool, and thinking most men to be fools ; 
afraid of nothing on earth — and, so his 
enemies said, of nothing elsew'here ; eaten 
up by conceit ; fond of law, but fonder, 
perhaps, of dominion ; soft as milk to 
those who acknowledged his power, but a 
tyrant to all who contested it ; conscien- 
tious, thoughtful, sarcastic, bright-witted, 
and laborious. He was a man who never 
spared himself. If he had a case in hand, 
though the interest to himself in it was 
almost nothing, he would rob himself of 
rest for a w’eek, should a point arise which 
required such labor. It was the theory 
of Mr. Dove’s life that he would never be 
beaten. Perhaps it was some fear in this 
respect that had ke^Dt him from Parlia- 
ment and confined him to the courts 
and the company of attorneys. He was, 
in truth, a married man with a family ; 


114 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


but they who knew him as the terror 
of oi3ponents and as the divulger of 
legal opinions^ heard nothing of his wife 
and children. He kept all such matters 
quite to himself, and was not given to 
much social intercourse with those among 
whom his work lay. Out at Streatham, 
where he lived, Mrs. Dove probably had 
her circle of acquaintance ; but Mr. 
Dove’s domestic life and his forensic life 
were kept quite separate. 

At the present moment Mr. Dove is in- 
teresting to us solely as being the learned 
counsel in whom Mr. Camj^erdown trust- 
ed — to whom Mr. Camperdown was will- 
ing to trust for an opinion in so grave a 
matter as that of the Eustace diamonds. 
A case was made out and submitted to 
Mr. Dove immediately after that scene on 
the pavement in Mount street, at which 
Mr. Camperdown had endeavored to in- 
duce Lizzie to give up the necklace ; and 
the following is the opinion which Mr. 
Dove gave : 

“ There is much error about heirlooms. 
Many think that any chattel may be made 
an heirloom by any owner of it. This is 
not the case. The law, however, does 
recognize heirlooms ; as to which the 
Exors. or Admors. are excluded in favor 
of the successor ; and when there are 
such heirlooms they go to the heir by spe- 
cial custom. Any devise of an heirloom 
is necessarily void , for the will takes place 
after death, and the heirloom is already 
vested in the heir by custom. We have 
it from Littleton that law prefers custom 
to devise. 

“ Brooke says that the best thing of 
every sort may be an heirloom — such as 
the best bed, the best table, the best pot 
or pan. 

“ Coke says that heirlooms are so by 
custom, and nOt by law. 

“ Spelman says, in defining an heirloom, 
that it may be ‘ Omne utensil robust! us 
which would exclude a necklace. 

“ In the ‘ Termes de Ley,’ it is defined 
as, ‘ Ascun parcel des utensils.’ 

“We are told in ‘ Coke upon Little- 
ton ’ that crown jewels are heirlooms, 
which decision — as far as it goes — denies 
the right to other jewels. 

“ Certain chattels may undoubtedly be 
held and claimed as being in the nature 
of heirlooms — as swords, pennons of honor, 
garter and collar of S. S. See case of the 
Earl of Northumberland ; and that of the 


Pusey horn — Pusey v. Pusey. The jour 
nals of the House of Lords, delivered of- 
ficially to peers, may be so claimed. See 
Upton V. Lord Ferrers. 

“ A devisor may clearly devise or limit 
the possession of chattels, making them^ 
inalienable by devisees in succession. But 
in such cases they will become the abso- 
lute possession of the first person seized in 
tail, even though an infant, and in case 
of death without will would go to the 
Exors. Such arrangement, therefore, can 
only hold good for lives in existence and 
for 21 years afterwards. Chattels so se- 
cured would not be heirlooms. See Carr 
V. Lord Erroll, 14 Vesey, and Rowland v. 
Morgan. 

“ Lord Eldon remarks that such chat- 
tels held in families are ‘ rather favorites 
of the court.’ This was in the Ormonde 
case. Executors, therefore, even when 
setting aside any claim as for heirlooms, 
ought not to apply such property in pay- 
ment of debts unless obliged. 

“ The law allows of claims for parapher- 
nalia for widows, and, having adjusted 
such claims, seems to show that the claim 
may be limited. 

“ If a man deliver cloth to his wife, and 
die, she shall have it, though she had not 
fashioned it into the garment intended. 

“ Pearls and jewels, even though only 
worn on state occasions, may go to the 
widow as paraphernalia, but with a limit. 
In the case of Lady Douglas, she being 
the daughter of an Irish Earl and widow 
of the King’s Sergeant (temp. Car. I.), it 
was held that £370 was not too much, 
and she was allowed a diamond and a 
pearl chain to that value. 

“In 1674 Lord Keeper Finch declared 
that he would never allow paraphernalia, 
except to the widow of a nobleman. 

“ But in 1721 Lord Macclesfield gave 
Mistress Tipping paraphernalia to the 
value of £200 — whether so persuaded by 
law and precedent, or otherwise, may be 
uncertain. 

“ Lord Talbot allowed a gold watch as 
paraphernalia. 

“ Lord Ilardwicke went much further, 
and decided that Mrs. Northey was en- 
titled to wear jewels to the value of 
£3,000, saying that value made no differ- 
ence ; but seems to have limited the na- 
ture of her possession in the jewels by de- 
claring her to be entitled to wear them 
only when full-dre.s.sed. 


rilE EUSTACE DIAIMONDS. 


115 


“ It is, I think, clear that the Eustace 
estate cannot claim the jewels as an heir- 
loom. They are last mentioned, and, so far 
as I know, only mentioned as an heirloom 
in the will of the great-grandfather of the 
present baronet, if these be the diamonds 
then named by him. As such he could 
not have devised them to the present 
claimant, as he died in 1820, and the pres- 
ent claimant is not yet two years old. 

“ Whether the widow could claim them 
as paraphernalia is more doubtful. I do 
not know that Lord Ilardwicke’s ruling 
would decide the case ; but if so, she 
would, I think, be debarred from selling, 
as he limits the use of jewels of lesser 
value than these to the wearing of them 
when full-dressed. The use being limit- 
ed, possession with power of alienation 
cannot be intended. 

“ T|ie lady’s claim to them as a gift 
from her husband amounts to nothing. 
If they are not hers by will, and it seems 
that they are not so, she can only hold 
them as paraphernalia belonging to her 
station. 

“I presume it to be capable of proof 
that the diamonds were not in Scotland 
when Sir Florian made his will or when 
he died. The former fact might be used 
as tending to show his intention when the 
will was made. I understand that he did 
leave to his widow by will all the chattels 
in Portray Castle. J. D. 

“ 15 August, 18—.” 

When INIr. Camperdown had thrice 
read this opinion, he sat in his chair an 
unhappy old man. It was undoubtedly 
the case that he had been a lawyer for up- 
ward of forty years, and had always be- 
lieved that any gentleman could make any 
article of value an heirloom in his family. 
The title-deeds of vast estates had been 
confided to his keeping, and he had had 
much to do with property of every kind ; 
and now he was told that in reference to 
property of a certain description — proper- 
ty which by its nature could only belong 
to such as they who were his clients — he 
had been long without any knowledge 
whatsoever. He had called this necklace 
an heirloom to John Eustace above a score 
of times; and now he was told by Mr. 
Dove not only that the necklace was not 
an heirloom, but that it couldn’t have 
been an heirloom. lie was a man who 
trusted much in a barrister, as was natu- 


ral with an attorney ; but he was now al- 
most inclined to doubt Mr. Dove. And 
he was hardly more at ease in regard to 
the other clauses of the opinion. Not 
only could not the estate claim the neck- 
lace as an heirloom, but that greedy si- 
ren, that heartless snake, that harpy of a 
widow — for it was thus that ;Mr. Camper- 
down in his solitude spoke to himself of 
poor Lizzie, perhaps throwing in a harder 
word or two — that female sw’indler could 
claim it as — paraphernalia ! 

There was a crumb of comfort for him 
in the thought that he could force her to 
claim that privilege from a decision of the 
Court of Queen’s Bench, and that her 
greed would be exposed should she do so. 
And she could be prevented from selling 
the diamonds. Mr. Dove seemed to make 
that quite clear. But then there came 
that other question as to the inheritance 
of the property under the husband’s w'ill. 
That Sir Florian had not intended that 
she should inherit the necklace, Mr. Cam- 
perdown wms quite certain. On that 
point he suffered no doubt. But would 
he be able to prove that the diamonds had 
never been in Scotland since Sir Florian ’s 
marriage? He had traced their history 
from that date with all the diligence he 
could use, and he thought that he knew 
it. But it might be doubtful whether he 
could prove it. Lady Eustace had first 
stated — had so stated before she had learn- 
ed the importance of any other statement 
— that Sir Florian had given her the dia- 
monds in London as they passed through 
London from Scotland to Italy, and that 
she had carried them thence to Naples, 
where Sir Florian had died. If this were 
so, they could not have been at Portray 
Castle till she took them there as a wid- 
ow, and they would undoubtedly be re- 
garded as a portion of that property which 
Sir Florian habitually kept in London. 
That this was so ^Ir. Camperdown enter- 
tained no doubt. But now the widow al- 
leged that Sir Florian had given the neck- 
lace to her in Scotland, whither they had 
gone immediately after their marriage, 
and that she herself had brought them up 
to London. They had been married on 
the 5th of September ; and by the jewel- 
lers’ books it was hard to tell whether the 
trinket had been given up to Sir Florian 
on the 4th or 24th of September. On the 
24th Sir Florian and his young bride had 
undoubtedly been in London. Mr. Cam- 


IIG 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


perdown anathematized the carelessness 
of everybody connected with Messrs. Gar- 
netts’ establishment. “ Those sort of 
people have no more idea of accuracy than 
— than — ; ” than he had had of heirlooms, 
his conscience whispered to him, filling up 
the blank. 

Nevertheless he thought he could prove 
that the necklace was first put into Liz- 
zie’s hands in London. The middle-aged 
and very discreet man at Messrs. Gar- 
netts’, who had given up the jewel-case to 
Sir Florian, was sure that he had known 
Sir Florian to be a married man when he 
did so. The lady’s maid who had been in 
Scotland with Lady Eustace, and who was 
now living in Turin, having married a 
courier, had given evidence before an Ital- 
ian man of law, stating that she had never 
seen the necklace till she came to London. 
There were, moreover, the probabilities 
of the case. Was it likely that Sir Flori- 
an should take such a thing down in his 
pocket to Scotland ? And there was the 
statement as first made by Lady Eustace 
herself to her cousin Frank, repeated by 
him to John Eustace, and not to be denied 
by any one. It was all very well for her 
now to say that she had forgotten ; but 
would any one believe that on such a sub- 
ject she could forget? 

But still the whole thing was very un- 
comfortable. Mr. Dove’s opinion, if seen 
by Lady Eustace and her friends, would 
rather fortify them than frighten them. 
Were she once to get hold of that word 
paraphernalia, it would be as a tower of 
strength to her. Mr. Camperdown spe- 
cially felt this, that whereas he had hith- 
erto believed that no respectable attorney 
would take up such a case as that of Lady 
Eustace, he could not now but confess to 
himself that any lawyer seeing Mr. Dove’s 
opinion would be justified in taking it 
up. And yet he was as certain as ever 
that the woman was robbing the estate 
which it was his duty to guard, and that 
should he cease to be active in the mat- 
ter the necklace would be broken up and 
the property sold and scattered before a 
year was out, and then the woman would 
have got the better of him ! “ She shall 

find that we have not done with her yet,” 
he said to himself, as he wrote a line to 
John Eustace. 

But John Eustace was out of town, as 
a matter of course ; and on the next day 
Mr. Camperdown himself went down and 


joined his wife and family at a little cot- 
tage which he had at Dawlish. The neck- 
lace, hoAvever, interfered much with his 
holiday. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

MR. GOWRAN IS VERY FUNNY. 

Frank Greystock certainly w'ent over 
to Portray too often — so often that the 
pony was proved to be quite necessary. 
Miss Macnulty held her tongue and was 
gloomy, believing that Lady Eustace was 
still engaged to Lord Fawn, and feeling 
that in that case there should not be so 
man}^ visits to the rocks. Mr. Gowran 
was very attentive, and could tell on any 
day, to five minutes, how long the two 
cousins were sitting together on the sea- 
shore. Arthur Herriot, who cared noth- 
ing for Lady Eustace, but who knew that 
his friend had promised to marry Lucy 
Morris, was inclined to be serious on the 
subject ; but— as is always the case with 
men — was not willing to speak about it. 

Once, and once only, the two men dined 
together at the castle,' for the doing of 
which it was necessary that a gig should 
be hired all the way from Prestwick. 
Herriot had not been anxious to go over, 
alleging various excuses — the absence of 
dress clothes, the calls of Stone and Toddy, 
his bashfulness, and the absurdity of pay- 
ing fifteen shillings for a gig. But • he 
went at last, constrained by his friend, 
and a very dull evening he passed. Liz- 
zie was quite unlike her usual self, was 
silent, grave, and solemnly courteous ; 
IMiss Macnulty had not a word to say for 
herself; and even Frank was dull. Ar- 
thur Herriot had not tried to exert him- 
self, and the dinner had been a failure. 

“ You don’t think much of my cousin, 
I dare say,” said Frank, as they were driv- 
ing back. 

“ She is a very pretty woman.” 

“ And I should say that she does not 
think much of you.” 

“ Probably not.” 

“ Why on earth wouldn’t you speak to 
her ? I went on making speeches to Miss 
Macnulty on purpose to give you a chance. 
Lizzie generally talks about as well as any 
young woman I know ; but you had not a 
word to say to her, nor she to you.” 

“ Because you devoted yourself to MLss 
Mac whatever her name is.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


117 


“ That'S nonsense,” said Frank; “ Liz- 
zie and I are more like brother and sister 
than anything else. She has no one else 
belonging to her, and she has to come to 
me for advice, and all that sort of thing. 
I wanted you to like her.” 

“ I never like people and people never 
like me. There is an old saying that you 
should know a man seven years before you 
poke his fire. I want to know persons 
sSven years before I can ask them how 
they do. To take me out to dine in this 
way was of all things the most hopeless.” 

“ But you do dine out in London.” 

“ That’s difierent. There’s a certain 
routine of conversation going, and one 
falls into it. At such afiairs as that this 
evening one has to be intimate or it is a 
bore. I don’t mean to say anything 
against Lady Eustace. Her beauty is un- 
deniable, and I don’t doubt her clever- 
ness.” 

“She is sometimes too clever,” said 
Frank. 

“ I hope she is not becoming too clever 
for you. You’ve got to remember that 
3^ou’re due elsewhere; eh, old fellow?” 
This was the first word that Ilerriot had 
said on the subject, and to that word 
Frank Grej'stock made no answer. But 
it had its effect, as also did the gloomy 
looks of Miss ^lacnulty, and the not unob- 
served presence of JNIr. Andy Gowran on 
various occasions, — n i--' 

Between them they shot more grouse — 
so the keeper swore — than had ever been 
shot on these mountains before. Ilerriot 
absolutely killed one or two himself, to 
his own great delight, and Frank, who 
was fairly skilful, would get four or five 
in a day. There were excursions to be 
made, and the air of the hills was in itself 
a treat to both of them. Though Gre^*- 
stock was so often away at the castle, Iler- 
riot did not find tlie time hang heavily on 
his hands, and was sorry when his fort- 
night was over. “ I think I shall stay a 
couple of daj’s longer,” Frank said, when 
Ilerriot spoke of their return. “ The 
truth is, I must see Lizzie again. -She is 
l)othered by business, and I haVe to see 
her about a letter that came this morn- 
ing. You needn’t pull such a long face. 
There’s nothing of the kind j'^ou’re think- 
ing of.” 

“ I thou'^ht so much of what you once 
said to me about another girl that I hope 
she at any rate may never be in trouble.” 


“ I hope she never may, on my' ac- 
count,” said Frank. “ And what trou- 
bles she may have, as life will be trouble- 
some, I trust that I may share and lessen.” 

On that evening Ilerriot went, and on the 
next morning Frank Grej’stock again rode 
over to Portray Castle ; but when he Avas 
alone after Herriot’s departure he Avrote a 
letter to Lucy Morris. He had expresse<l 
a hope that he might never be a cause of 
trouble to Lucy Morris, and he kneAv that 
his silence AA'ould trouble her. There 
could be no human being less inclined to 
be suspicious than Lucy Morris. Of that 
Frank was sure. But there had been an 
express stipulation Avith Lady FaAvn that 
she should be alloAved to receive letters 
from him, and she would naturally be 
vexed when he did not Avrite to her. So 
he Avrote. 

“ PoRTKAY Cottage, September 3, 18—. 

“Dearest Lucy: AYe have been here 
for a fortnight, shooting grouse, Avander- 
ing about the mountains, and going >o 
sleep on the hillsides. You will say that 
there never was a time so fit for the writ- 
ing of letters, but that will be because j’ou 
have not learned j'et that the idler people 
are the more inclined they are to be idle. 
We hear of lord chancellors AATiting let- 
ters to their mothers every day of their 
liA’es ; but men who have nothing on earth 
to do cannot bring themselves to face a 
sheet of paper. I would promise that 
Avhen I am lord chancellor I would write 
to you every day were it not that when 
that time comes I shall hope to be always 
Avith you. 

“ And, in truth, I liaA’e had to pay con- 
stant visits to my cousin, Avho lives in a 
big castle on the seaside, ten miles from 
here, over the mountains, and who is in a 
peck of troubles ; in spite of her prosper- 
ity' one of the unhappiest women, I should 
say, that you could meet anywhere. You 
know so much of her affairs that without 
breach of trust I may say so much . I Avish 
she had a father or a brother to manage 
her matters for her ; but she has none, and 
I cannot desert her. Your Lord Fawn is 
behaving badly to her ; and so, as far as I 
can see, are the people Avho manage the 
Eustace property. Lizzie, as y'ou know, 
is not the most tractable of Avomen, and al- 
together I have more to do in the matter 
than I like. Riding ten times backwards 
and forwards so often over the same route 


118 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


on a little pony is not good fun, but I am 
almost glad the distance is not less. 
Othenvise I might have been alwa 5 's 
there. I know you don’t quite like Liz- 
zie, but she is to be pitied. 

“ I go up to London on Friday, but 
shall only be there for one or two days, 
that is, for one night. I go almost entire- 
ly on her business, and must, I fear, be 
here again, or at the castle, before I can 
settle myself either for work or happiness. 
On Sunday night I go down to Bobsbo- 
rough, where, indeed, I ought to have 
been earlier. I fear I cannot go to Rich- 
mond on the Saturday, and on the Sunday 
Lady Fawn would bardly make me wel- 
come. I shall be at Bobsborough for 
about three weeks, and there, if you have 
commands to give, 1 will obey them. 

“ I may, however, tell you the truth at 
once — though it is a truth you must keep 
very much to yourself. In the position in 
which I now stand as to Lord Fawn — be- 
ing absolutely forced to quarrel with him 
o\i Lizzie’s behalf— Lady Fawn could hard- 
ly receive me with comfort to herself. She 
is the best of women ; and, as she is your 
dear friend, nothing is further from me 
than any idea of quarrelling with her ; 
but of course she takes her son’s part, and 
I hardly know how all allusion to the sub- 
ject could be avoided. 

“ This, however, dearest, need ruffle no 
feather between you and me, who love 
each other better than we love either the 
Fawns or the Lizzies. Let me find a line 
at my chambers to say that it is so and al- 
ways shall be so. 

“ God bless my own darling. 

“ Ever and always j’our own, 

“F. G.” 

On the following day he rode over to the 
castle. He had received a letter from 
John Eustace, who*had found himself 
forced to run up to London to meet I\Ir. 
Camperdown. The lawyer had thought 
to postpone further consideration of the 
whole matter till he and everjfflody else 
would be naturally in London — till No- 
vember that might be, or perhaps even 
till after Christmas. But his mind was 
ill at ease ; and he knew that so much 
might be done with the diamonds in four 
months ! They might even now be in the 
hands of some Benjamin or of some Hart- 
er, and it might soon be beyond the power 
either of lawyers or of policemen to trace 


them. He therefore went up from Daw 
lish and persuaded John Eustace to come 
from Yorkshire. It was a great nuisance, 
and Eustace freely anathematized the 
necklace. “ If only some one would steal 
it, so that we might hear no more of the 
thing,” he said. But, as Mr. Camper- 
down had frequently remarked, the value 
was too great for trifling, and Eustace 
went up to London. Mr. Camperdown 
put into his hands the Turtle Dove’s opin- 
ion, explaining that it was by no means 
expedient that it should be shown to the 
other party. Eustace thought that the 
opinion should be common to them all. 
“ We pay for it,” said Mr. Camperdown, 
“ and they can get their opinion from any 
other barrister if they please. ’ ’ But what 
was to be done? Eustace declared that 
as to the present whereabouts of the neck- 
lace he did not in the least doubt that he 
could get the truth from Frank Grey- 
stock. He therefore wrote to Greystock, 
and with that letter in his pocket Frank 
rode over to the castle for the last time. 

lie, too, was heartily sick of the neck- 
lace ; but unfortunately he was not equal- 
ly sick of her who held it in possession. 
And he was, too, better alive to the im- 
portance of the value of the trinket than 
John Eustace, though not so keenly as 
was Mr. Camperdown. Lady Eustace 
was out somewhere among the cliffs, the 
servant said. He regretted this as he fol- 
lowed her, but he was obliged to follow 
her. Half-way down to the seashore, 
much beloAV the knob on which she had 
attempted to sit with her Shelley, but yet 
not beloAV the need of assistance, he found 
her seated in a little ravine. “ I knew 
you would come,” she said. Of course 
she had known that he would come. She 
did not rise, or even give him her hand, 
but there Avas a spot close beside her on 
which it was to be presumed that he would 
seat himself. She had a volume of Byron 
in her hand — the “ Corsair,” “Lara,” and 
the “Giaour” — a kind of poetry which 
was in truth more intelligible to her than 
“ Queen Mab.” “ You go to-morrow? ” 

“ Yes ; I go to-morroAV.” 

“ And Lubin has gone ? ” Arthur Her- 
riot was Lubin. 

“ Lubin has gone. , Though why Lubin 
I cannot guess. Thd normal Lubin to me 
is a stujDid felloAv ahvaj’s in love. Herri- 
ot is not stupid and is never in love.” 

“ Nevertheless, he is Lubin if I choose 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


119 


to call him so. Why did he twiddle his 
thumbs instead of talking.’ Have you 
heard anything of Lord Fawn? ” 

“ I have had a letter from your brother- 
in-law.” 

“ And what is John the Just pleased to 
say?” 

“ John the Just, which is a better name 
for the man than the other, has been called 
up to London, much against his will, by 
Mr. Camperdown.” 

“ Who is Samuel the Unjust.” Mr. 
Camperdown ’s name was Samuel. 

“ And now wants to know where this 
terrible necklace is at this present mo- 
ment.” He paused a moment, but Lizzie 
did not answer him. “I suppose you 
have no objection to telling me Avhere it 
is.” 

“ None in the least, or to giving it you 
to keep for me, only that I would not so 
far trouble you. But I have an objection 
to telling them. They are my enemies. 
Let them find out.” 

“ You are wrong, Lizzie. You do not 
want, or at any rate should not want, to 
have any secret in the matter.” 

“ They are here, in the castle; in the 
very place in which Sir Florian kept them 
when he gave them to me. Where should 
my own jewels be but in my own house ? 
What does that Mr. Dove say who was to 
be asked about them ? No doubt they can 
pay a barrister to say anything. ’ ’ 

“ Lizzie, you think too hardly of peo- 
ple.” 

“ And do not people think too hardly 
of me? Does not all this amount to an 
accusation against me that I am a tliief? 
Am I not persecuted among them? Did 
not this impudent attorney stop me in the 
public street and accuse me of theft before 
my very servants? Have they not so far 
succeeded in misrepresenting me that the 
very man who is engaged to be my hus- 
band betrays me ? And now you are turn- 
ing against me? Can you wonder that I 
am hard? ” 

“lam not turning against you.” 

“Yes; you are. You take their part 
and not mine in everything. I tell you 
what, Frank, I would go out in that boat 
that you see yonder and drop the bauble 
into the sea did I not know that they’d 
drag it up again wiUi their devilish inge- 
nuity. If the stones would burn I would 
bum them. But the worst of it all is that 
you are becoming my enemy.” Then she 


burst into violent and almost hysteric 
tears. 

“ It will be better that you should give 
them into the keeping of some one whom 
you can both trust, till the law has de 
cided to whom they belong.” 

“ I will never give them up. What 
does Mr. Dove say? ” 

“ I have not seen what Mr. Dove saj^s. 
It is clear that thajnecklace is not an heir- 
loom.” 

“ Then how dare Mr. Camperdown say 
so often that it was? ” 

“ He said what he thought,” pleaded 
Frank. . 

“ And he is a lawyer ! ” 

“ I am a lawyer, and I did not know 
what is or what is not an heirloom. But 
]\lr. Dove is clearly of opinion that such a 
property could not have been given away 
simply by a word of mouth.” John Eus- 
tace in his letter had made no. allusion to 
that complicated question of parapherna- 
lia. 

“ But it was,” said Lizzie. “ AYho can 
know but myself, when no one else was 
present? ” 

“ The jew'els are here now? ” 

“Not in my pocket. I do not can\ 
tiiem about with me. They are in the cas- 
tle.” 

“And will they go back with you to 
London ? ’ ’ 

“ AYas ever lady so interrogated? I do 
not know yet that I shall go back to Lon- 
don. AA^hy am I asked such questions? 
As to you, Frank, I would tell you ever}- 
thing, my whole heart, if only you cared 
to know it. But why is John Eustace to 
make inquiry as to personal ornaments 
w'hich are my own property ? If I go to 
London I will take them there, and wear 
them at every house I enter. I will do so 
in defiance of Mr. Camperdown and Lord 
Fawn. I think, Frank, that no woman 
was ever so ill-treated as I am.” 

He himself thought that she was ill- 
treated. She had so pleaded her case, 
and had been so lovely in her tears and 
her indignation, that he began to feel 
something like true sympathy for her 
cause. AA^’hat right had he, or had Mr. 
Camperdown, or any one, to say that the 
jewels did not belong to her? And if her 
claim to them was just, why should she 
be persuaded to give up the possession of 
them? He knew well that were she to 
surrender them with the idea that they 


120 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


should be restored to her if her claim were 
found to be just, she would not get them 
back very soon. If once the jeAvels were 
safe,' locked up in Mr. Garnett’s strong 
box, Mr. Camperdown would not care how 
long it might be before a jury or a judge 
should have decided on the case. The 
Ijurden of proof would then be thrown 
upon Lady Eustace. In order that she 
might recover her own property she would 
have to thrust lierself forward as a wit- 
ness, and appear before the world a claim- 
ant, greedy for rich ornaments. Why 
should he advise her to give them up ? “I 
am onlj’’ thinking,” said he, ” what may 
be the best for j’our own peace.” 

“ Peace ! ” she exclaimed. “ IIow am 
1 to have peace? Remember the condi- 
tion in which I find myself! Remember 
the manner in which that man is treating 
me, when all the world has been told of 
my engagement to him ! AYlien I think 
of it my heart is so bitter that I am in- 
clined to throw, not the diamonds, but 
myself, from off the rocks. All that re- 
mains to me is the triumph of getting the 
better of my enemies. Mr. Camperdown 
shall never have the diamonds. Even if 
they could prove that they did not belong 
to me they should find them — gone.” 

“ I don’t think they can prove it.” 

“I’ll flaunt them in the eyes of all of 
them till they do ; and then — they shall 
be gone. And I’ll have such revenge on 
Lord FaAvn before I have done with him 
that he shall know that it may be worse 
to have to fight a woman than a man. 
Oh, Frank, I do not think that I am hard 
by nature, but these things make a woman 
hard.” As she spoke she took his hand 
in hers, and looked up into his eyes 
through her tears. “ I know that you do 
not care for me and you know how much 
I care for you.” 

“ Not care for you, Lizzie? ” 

” No ; that little thing at Richmond is 
everything to you. She is tame and quiet, 
a cat that will sleep on the rug before the 
fire, and you think that she will never 
scratch. Do not suppose that I mean to 
abuse her. She was my dear friend be- 
fore you had ever seen her. And men, 1 
know, have tastes which women do not 
understand. You want what j^ou call — 
repose.” 

“ AVe seldom know what we want, I 
fancy. AYe take what the gods send us.” 
Frank’s words were perhaps more true 


than wise. At the present moment the 
gods had clearly sent Lizzie Eustace to 
him, and unless he could call up some in- 
creased strength of his own, quite inde- 
pendent of the gods, or of what we may 
perhaps call chance, he would have to put 
up with the article sent. 

Lizzie had declared that she would not 
touch Lord Fawn with a pair of tongs, 
and in saying so had resolved that she 
could not and would not now marry his 
lordship, even were his lordship in her 
power. It had been decided by her as 
quickly as thoughts flash, but it was de- 
cided. She would torture the unfortunate 
lord, but not torture him by becoming his 
wife. And, so much being fixed as the 
stars in heaven, might it be possible that 
she should even yet induce her cousin to 
take the place that had been intended for 
Lord Fawn? After all that had passed 
between them she need hardly hesitate to 
tell him of her love. And with the same 
flashing thoughts she declared to herself 
that she did love him, and that therefore 
this arrangement would be so much better 
than that other one which she had pro- 
posed to herself. The reader, perhaps, by 
this time, has not a high opinion of Lady 
Eustace, and may believe that among 
other drawbacks on her character there is 
especially this, that she was heartless. 
But that was by no means her own opinion 
of herself. She would have described her- 
self— and would have meant to do so with 
truth — as being all heart. She probably 
thought that an over-amount of heart was 
the malady under which she specially suf- 
fered. Her heart was overflowing now to- 
ward the man who was sitting by her 
side. And then it would be so pleasant to 
punish that little chit who had spurned 
her gift and had dared to call her mean I 
This man, too, was needy, and she was 
wealthy. Surely were she to offer herself 
to him the generosity of the thing would 
make it noble. She was still dissolved 
in tears and was still hysteric. “ Oh, 
Frank ! ” she said, and threw herself upon 
his breast. 

Frank Greystock felt his position to be 
one of intense difficulty, but whether this 
difficulty was increased or diminished by 
the appearance of Air. Andy Gowran’s 
head over a rock at the entrance of the lit- 
tle cave in which they were sitting it 
might be difficult to determine. But there 
was the head. And it was not a head 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


121 


that just popped itself up and then re- 
treated, as a head Avould do that was dis- 
covered doing that which made it ashamed 
of itself. The head, with its eyes wide 
open, held its own, and seemed to say, 
“Ay, I’ve caught you, have I?” And 
the head did speak, though not exactly in 
those words. “ Coosins ! ” said the head ; 
and then the head was wagged. In the 
meantime Lizzie Eustace, whose back was 
turned to the head, raised her own, and 
looked up into Greystock’s eyes for love. 
She perceived at once that something was 
amiss, and, starting to her feet, turned 
quickly round. “ How dare j’^ou intrude 
here?” she said to the head. “Coo- 
sins ! ” replied the head, wagging itself. 

It was clearly necessary that Greystock 
should take some steps, if only with the 
object of proving to the impudent facto- 
tum that he was not altogether overcome 
by the awkwardness of his position. That 
he was a good deal annoyed, and that he 
felt not altogether quite equal to the occa- 
sion, must be acknowledged. “ What is 
it that the man wants? ” he said, glaring 
at the head. “ Coosins ! ” said the head, 
wagging itself again. “ If you don’t take 
yourself off, I shall have to thrash you,” 
said Frank. “Coosins!” said Andy 
Gowran, stepping from behind the rock 
and showing his full figure. Andy was a 
man on the wrong side of fifty, and there- 
fore, on the score of age, hardly fit for 
thrashing. And he was compact, short, 
broad, and as hard as flint ; a man bad to 
thrash, look at it from what side j'ou 
would. “Coosins!” he said yet again. 
“ Ye’re raair couthie than coosinly. I’m 
thinking.” 

“ Andy Gowran, I dismiss you my ser- 
vice for your impertinence,” said Lady 
Eustace. 

“ It’s ae one to Andy Gowran for that, 
my leddie. There's timber and a world o’ 


things aboot the place as wants proteec- 
tion on behalf o’ the heir. If 3’’our leddie- 
ship is minded to be quit o’ mj’’ sarvices, 
I’ll find a maister in Mr. Camper-doon, 
as’ll nae allow me to be thrown out o’ em- 
ploy. Coosins!” 

“ Walk off from this,” said Frank 
Gre3’stock, coming forward and putting 
his hand upon the man’s breast. Mr. 
Gowran repeated the objectionable word 
3"et once again, and then retired. 

Frank Greystock immediately felt how 
very bad for him M'as his position. For 
the lad^'", if only she could succeed in her 
object, the annoj^ance of the interruption 
would not matter much after its first ab- 
surdity had been endured. AYhen she 
had become the wife of Frank fjrej'stock 
there would be nothing remarkable in the 
fact that she had been found sitting with 
him in a cavern by the seashore. But for 
Frank the difficulty of extricating himself 
from his dilemma was great, not in regard 
to IMr. Gowran, but in reference to his 
cousin Lizzie. He might, it was true, 
tell her that he was engaged to Lucy^ Mor- 
ris ; but then why had he not told her so 
before? He had not told her so ; nor did 
he tell her on this occasion. When he 
attempted to lead her away up the clift' 
she insisted on being left where she was. 
“ I can find my way alone,” she said, en- 
deavoring to smile through her tears. 
“ The man has annoyed me by his impu- 
dence, that is all. Go, if you are going.” 

Of course he was going ; but he could 
not go without a word of tenderness. 
“ Dear, dear Lizzie,” he said, embracing 
her. 

“ Frank, jw’ll be true to me? ” 

“ I will be true to you.” 

“Then go now,” she said. And he 
went his way up the cliff, and got his 
pony, and rode back to the cottage, very 
uneasy in his mind. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


LUCY MORRIS MISBEHAVES. 

L ucy morris got her letter and was 
contented. She wanted some demon- 
stration of love from her lover, but very 
little sufficed for her comfort. With her it 
was almost impossible that a man should 
be loved and suspected at the same time. 
She could not have loved the man, or at 
any rate confessed her love, without 
thinking well of him ; and she could not 
think go^d and evil at the same time. 
She had longed for some word from him 
since she last saw him ; and now she had 
got a word. She had known that he was 
close to his fair cousin — the cousin whom 
she despised, and whom, with womanly 
instinct, she had almost regarded as a ri- 
val. But to her the man had spoken out ; 
and though he was far away from her, 
living close to the fair cousin, she would * 
not allow a thought of trouble on that 
score to annoy her. He was her own, and 
let Lizzie'Eustace do her worst, he would 
remain her own. But she had longed to 
be told that he was thinking of her, and 
at last the letter had come. She answered 
it that same night with the sweetest, pret- 
tiest little letter, very short, full of love 
and full of confidence. Lady Fawn, she 
said, was the dearest of women ; but what 
was Lady Fawn to her, or all the Fawns, 
compared with her lover? If he could 
come to Richmond without disturbance to 
himself, let him come ; but if he felt that, 
in the present unhappy condition of af- 
fairs between him and Lord Fawn, it was 
better that he should stay away, she had 
not a word to say in the way of urging 
him. To see him would be a great de- 
light. But had she not the greater de-. 
light of knowing that he loved her ? That 
was quite enough to make her happy. 
Then there was a little prayer that God 
might bless him, and an assurance that 
she was in all things his own, own Lucy. 
When she was writing her letter she was 
in all respects a happy girl. 

But on the very next day there came a 
cloud upon her happiness, not in the least, 
however, affecting her full confidence in 


I her lover. It was a Saturday, and Lord 
Fawn came down to Richmond. Lord 
Fawn had seen Mr. Greystock in London 
on that day, and the interview had been 
by no means pleasant to him. The Un- 
der-Secretary of State for India was as 
dark as a November day when he reached 
his mother’s house, and there fell upon 
every one the unintermittent cold driz- 
zling shower of his displeasure from the 
moment in which he entered the house. 
There was never much reticence among 
the ladies at Richmond in Lucy’s pres- 
ence, and since the completion of Lizzie’s 
unfortunate visit to Fawn Court they had 
not hesitated to express open opinions ad- 
verse to the prospects of the proposed 
bride. Lucy herself could say but little 
in defence of her old friend, who had lost 
all claim upon that friendship since the of- 
fer of the bribe had been made, so that it 
was understood among them all that Liz- 
zie was to be regarded as a black sheep , 
but hitherto Lord Fawn himself had con- 
cealed his feelings before Lucy. Now 
unfortunately he spoke out, and in speak- 
ing was especially bitter against Frank. 
“ Mr. Grej-gtock has been most insolent,” 
he said as they were all sitting together 
in the library after dinner. Lady Fawn 
made a sign to him and shook her head. 
Lucy felt the hot blood fly into both her 
cheeks, but at the moment she did not 
speak. Lydia Fawn put out her hand be- 
neath the table and took hold of Lucy’s. 
“We must all remember that he is her 
cousin,” said Augusta. 

“ His relationship to Lady Eustace can- 
not justify ungentlemanlike impertinence 
to me,” said Lord Fawn. “ He has dared 
to use words to me which would make it 
necessary that I should call him out, 
only ” 

“ Frederic, you shall do nothing of the 
kind,” said Lady Fawn, jumping up from 
her chair. 

“ Oh, Frederic, pray, pray don’t,” said 
Augusta, springing on to her brother's 
shoulder. 

“I am sure Frederic does not mean 
that,’’ said Amelia. 

“ Only that nobody does call anybody 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


out now,” added the pacific lord. “But 
nothing on earth shall ever induce me to 
speak again to a man who is so little like 
a gentleman.” Lydia now held Lucy’s 
hand still tighter, as though to prevent 
her rising. “ He has never forgiven me,” 
continued Lord Fawn, “ because he was 
so ridiculously wrong about the Sawab.” 

“lam sure that had nothing to do with 
it,” said Lucy. 

“Miss Morris, I shall venture to hold 
my own opinion,” said Lord Fawn. 

“ And I shall hold mine,” said Lucy 
bravely. “ The Sawab of Mygawb had 
nothing to do with what Mr. Greystock 
may have said or done about his cousin. 
I am quite sure of it.” 

“Lucy, you are forgetting yourself,” 
said Lady Fawn. 

“ Lucy, dear, you shouldn’t contradict 
my brother,” said Augusta. 

“ Take my advice, Lucy, and let it pass 
by,” said Amelia. 

“How can I hear such things said 
and not notice them? ” demanded Lucy. 
“ AVhy does Lord Fawn say them when I 
am by?” 

Lord Fawn had now condescended to be 
full of wrath against his mother’s govern- 
ess. “ I suppose I may express my own 
opinion. Miss Morris, in my mother’s 
house.” 

“And I shall express mine,” said Lucy. 
“Mr. Greystock is a gentleman. If you 
say that he is not a gentleman, it is not 
true.” Upon hearing these terrible words 
spoken. Lord Fawn rose from his seat and 
slowly left the room. Augusta followed 
him with both her arms stretched out. 
Lady Fawn covered her face with her 
hands, and even Amelia was dismayed. 

“Oh, Lucy! why could you not hold 
your tongue? ” said Lydia. 

“ I won’t iiold my tongue,” said Lucy, 
bursting out into tears. “ He is a gentle- 
man.” 

Then there was great commotion at 
Fawn Court. After a few moments Lady 
Fawn followed her son without having 
.said a word to Lucy, and Amelia went 
with her. Poor Lucy was left with the 
younger girls, and was no doubt very un- 
happy. But she was still indignant and 
would yield nothing. When Georgina, 
the fourth daughter, pointed out to her 
that, in accordance with all rules of good 
breeding, she should have abstained from 
asserting that her brother had spoken an 


1 OQ 

Xf^O 

untruth, .she blazed up again “ It was 
untrue,” she said. 

“ But, Lucy, people never accuse each 
other of untruth. No lady should use 
such a word to a gentleman.” 

“He should not have’ said so. He 
knows that Mr. Greystock is more to me 
than all the world.” 

“If I had a lover,” said Nina, “and 
anybody were to say a word against him, 
I know I’d fly at them. I don’t know 
why Frederic is to have it all liis own 
way.” 

“ Nina, you’re a fool,” said Diana. 

“ I do think it was very hard for Lucy 
to bear,” .^^aid Lj^dia. 

“And I won’t bear it,” exclaimed 
Lucy. “ To think that Mr. Greystock 
should be so mean as to bear malice about 
a thing like that wild Indian because he 
takes his own cousin’s part! Of course 
I’d better go away. You all think that 
i\Ir. Grey'stock is an enemy now ; but he 
never can be an enemy to me.” 

“ We think that Lady Eustace is an 
enemy,” said Cecilia, “ and a very nasty 
enemy, too.” 

“ I did not say a word about Lady Eus- 
tace,” said Lucy. “ But Mr. Greystock 
is a gentleman.” 

About an hour after this Lady Fawn 
sent for Lucy, and the two were closeted 
together for a long time. Lord Fawn 
was very angry, and had hitherto alto- 
gether declined to overlook the insult of- 
fered. “I am bound to tell you,” de- 
clared Lady Fawn, with mucli emphasis, 
“ that nothing can justify you in having 
accused Lord Fawn of telling an untruth. 
Of course I was sorry that Mr. Greystock ’s 
name should have been mentioned in your 
presence ; but as it was mentioned, you 
should have borne what was said with 
patience’.” 

“ I couldn’t be patient, Lady Fawn.” 

“ That is what wicked people say when 
they commit murder, and then they are 
hung for it.” 

“ I’ll go away, Lady Fawn ” 

“ That is ungrateful, my dear. You 
know that I don’t wish you to go away. 
But if you behave badly, of course I must 
tell 3’-ou of it.” 

“I’d sooner go away. Everybody here 
thinks ill of Mr. Greystock. But I don’t 
think ill of Mr. Greystock, and I never 
shall. AVhy did Lord Fawn say such 
very hard things about him ? ” 


124 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


It was suggested to her that she should 
be down stairs early the next morning, 
and ajpologize to Lord Fawn for her rude- 
ness ; but she would not, on that night, 
undertake to do any such thing. Let 
Lady Fawn say what she might, Lucy 
thought that the injury had been done to 
her, and not to his lordship. And so they 
parted hardly friends. Lady Fawn gave 
her no kiss as she AA^ent, and Lucy, with 
obstinate pride, altogether refused to oaa’u 
her fault. She AA^ould only say that she 
had better go, and when Lady Fawn OA'er 
and OA’er again pointed out to her that the 
last thing that such a one as Lord Fawn 
could bear was to be accused of an un- 
truth, she would continue to say that in 
that case he should be careful to say noth- 
ing that was untrue. All this was very 
dreadful, and created great confusion and 
unhappiness at Fawn Court. Lydia came 
into her room that night, and the tAvo 
girls talked the matter over for hours. 
In the’ morning Lucy was up early, and 
found Lord Fawn AA’alking in the grounds. 
She had been told that he would probably 
be found walking in the grounds, if she 
Avere Avilling to tender to him any apology. 

Her mind had been very full of the sub- 
ject — not only in reference to her lover, 
but as it regarded her OAvn conduct. One 
of the elder FaAvn girls had assured her 
that under no circumstances could a lady 
be justified in telling a gentleman that he 
had spoken an untruth, and sfie Avas not 
quite sure but that the law so laid doAvn 
Avas right. And then she could not but 
remember that the gentleman in question 
Avas Lord Fawn, and that she Avas Lady 
Fawn’s governess. But Mr. Greystock 
Avas her affianced lover, and her first duty 
Avas to him. And then, granting that 
she herself had been Avrong in accusing 
Lord Fawn of untruth, slie could not re- 
frain from asking herself Avhether he had 
not been much more wrong in saying in 
her hearing that Mr. Greystock was not a 
gentleman? And his offence had pre- 
ceded her offence, and had caused it! 
She hardly kneAV whether she did or did 
not owe an apology to Lord FaAvn, but 
she was quite sure that Lord FaAvn oAved 
an apology to her. 

She walked straight up to Lord FaAvn, 
and met him beneath the trees. He was 
still black and solemn, and was evidently 
brooding over his grievance ; but he 
bowed to her, and stood still as she ap- 


proached him. “ My lord,” said she, “ I 
am very sorry for Avhat happened last 
night.” 

“ And so was I, very sorry. Miss Mor- 
ris.” 

“ I think you know that I am engaged 
to marry Mr. Gre3'stock? ” 

“ I cannot allow that that has anything 
to do Avith it.” 

“•When 3"ou think that he must be 
dearer to me than all Uie world, j^ou will 
acknoAvledge that I couldn’t hear hard 
things said of him without speaking.” 
His face became blacker than ever, but 
he made no reply. He wanted an abject 
begging of unconditional pardon from the 
little girl Avho loved his enemy. If that 
Avere done, he would vouchsafe his for- 
giveness ; but he Avas too small by nature 
to grant it on other terms. “ Of course,” 
continued Lucy, “ I am bound to treat 
you with special respect in Lady Fawn’s 
house.” She looked almost beseechingly 
into his face as she paused for a mo- 
ment. 

“ But 3’ou treated me Avith especial dis- 
respect,” said Lord Fawn. 

“ And hoAV did you treat me. Lord 
Fawn? ” 

“ Miss Morris, I must be alloAved, in 
discussing matters Avith my mother, to 
express my own opinions in such language 
as I may think fit to use. Mr. Gre}'- 
stock's conduct to me was — was — was al- 
together most ungentlemanlike.” 

“ Mr. Grej^stock is a gentleman.” 

“His conduct was most, offensive, and 
most ungentlemanlike. !Mr. Gre^'^stock 
disgraced himself.” 

“ It isn’t true,” said Lucy. Lord FaAvn 
gave one start, and then walked off to the 
house as quick as his legs could carry him. 


CHAPTER XXVHI. 

MR. DOVE IN ms CHAMBERS. 

The scene betAveen Lord Fawn ana 
Greystock had taken place in ^Ir. Cam- 
perdown’s chambers, and John Eustace 
had also been present. The laAvj'er had 
suffered considerable annoj^ance, before 
the arrival of the tAvo first-named gentle- 
men, from reiterated assertions made by 
Eustace that he would take no furthei 
trouble whatsoeA’er about the jewels. Mr. 
CamperdoAvn had in vain pointed out to 
him that a plain duty lay upon him as 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


15^0 


executor and guardian to protect the pro- 
perty on behalf of his nephew ; but Eus- 
tace had asserted that, though he himself 
was comparatively a poor man, he would 
sooner replace the necklace out of his own 
property than be subject to the nuisance 
of such a continued quarrel. “ My dear 
John ; ten thousand pounds ! ” ^Ir. Cam- 
l^erdown had said. “ It is a fortune for a 
younger son.” 

“ The boy is only two years old, and 
will have time enough to make fortunes 
for his own younger sons, if he does not 
squander everything. If he does, ten 
thousand pounds will make no difference.” 

“ But the justice of the thing, John ! ” 

“ J ustice may be purchased too dearly.” 

“ Such a harpy as she is, too ! ” pleaded 
the lawyer. Then Lord Fawn had come in, 
and Greystock had followed immediately 
afterward. 

“ I may as well say at once,” said 
Greystock, “ that Lady Eustace is deter- 
mined to maintain her right to the pro- 
perty ; and that she will not give up the 
diamond till some adequate court of law 
shall have decided that she is mistaken in 
her views. Stoj) one moment, Mr. Cam- 
I)erdown. I feel mj'self bound to go fur- 
ther than that, and express my own opin- 
ion that she is right.” 

“ I can hardly understand such an opin- 
ion as coming from you,” said Mr. Cam- 
perdown. 

“ You have changed your mind, at any 
rate,” said John Eustace. 

“ Not so, Eustace. Mr. Camperdown, 
you’ll be good enough to understand that my 
opinion expressed here is that of a friend, 
and not that of a law3'er. And you must 
understand, Eustace,” continued Grey- 
stock, “ that I am speaking now of my 
cousin’s right to the property. Though 
the value be great, I have advised her to 
give up the custody of it for a while, till 
the matter shall be clearly decided. That 
has still been my advice to her, and I have 
in no respect changed my mind. But she 
feels that she is being cruelly used, and 
with a woman’s spirit will not, in such 
circumstances, yield anything. Mr. Cam- 
perdown actually stopped her carriage in 
the street.’’ 

“ She would not answer a line that an}’^- 
body wrote to her,” said the lawyer. 

“ And I may say plainly — for all here 
know the circumstances — that Lady Eus- 
tace feels the strongest possible indigna- 


tion at the manner in which she is being 
treated b}’’ Lord Fawn.” 

“ I have only asked her to give up the 
diamonds till the question should be set- 
tled,” said Lord Fawn. 

“ And 3^ou backed j^our request, my 
lord, by a threat ! My cousin is naturally 
most indignant ; and, my lord, you must 
allow me to tell you that I fully share the 
feeling.” 

“ There is no use in making a quarrel 
about it,” said Eustace. 

“ The quarrel is already made,” replied 
Gre3’stock. “lam here to tell Lord Fawn 
in 3'our presence, and in the presence of 
Mr. Camperdown, that he is behaving to 
a lady with ill-usage, which he would not 
dare to exercise did he not know that her 
position saves him from legal punishment, 
as do the present usages of society from 
other consequences.” 

“ I have behaved to her with every pos- 
sible consideration,” said Lord Fawn. 

“ That is a simple assertion,” said the 
other. “ I have made one assertion, and 
you have made another. The world will 
have to judge between us. . VYhat right 
have 3'ou to take upon yourself to decide 
whether this thing or that belongs to 
Lady Eustace or to any one else? ” 

“ When the thing was talked about 1 
was obliged to have an opinion,” said 
Lord Fawn, who was still thinking of 
words in which to reply to the insult of- 
fered him by Gre3"stock without injuiy to 
his dignity as an Under-Secretary of State. 

“ Your conduct, sir, has been altogether 
inexcusable,” Then Frank turned to the 
attorne3\ “ I have been given to under- 
stand that 3’ou are desirous of knowing 
where this diamond necklace is at present. 
It is at Lady Eustace’s house in Scotland ; 
at Portray Castle. ’ ’ Then he shook liands 
with John Eustace, bowed to Mr. Cam- 
perdown, and succeeded in leaving the 
room before Lord Fawn had so far col- 
lected his senses as to be able to frame his 
anger into definite words. 

“ I will never willingly speak to that 
man again,” said Lord Fawn. But as it 
was not probable that Gre3"stock would 
greatly desire any further conversation 
with Lord Fawn, this threat did not carry 
with it any powerful feeling of severity. 

Mr. Camperdown groaned over the mat- 
ter with thorough vexation of spirit. It 
seemed to him as though the harpy,* as he 
called her, would really make good hei 


12G 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


case against him, at any rate would make 
it seem to be good for so long a time that 
all the triumph of success would be hers. 
He knew that she was already in debt, and 
gave her credit for a propensity to fast liv- 
ing, which almost did her an injustice. 
Of course the jewels would be sold for 
half their value, and the harpy would tri- 
umph. Of what use to him or to the es- 
tate would be a decision of the courts in 
his favor when the diamonds should have 
been broken up and scattered to the winds 
of heaven? Ten thousand pounds! It 
was, to Mr. Camperdown’s mind, a thing 
quite terrible that, in a country which 
boasts of its laws and of the execution of 
its laws, such an impostor as was this 
widow' should be able to lay her dirty, 
grasping lingers on so great an amount of 
property, and that there should be no 
means of punishing her. That Lizzie 
Eustace had stolen the diamonds, as a 
pickpocket steals a watch, w'as a fact as 
to w'hich Mr. Camperdowm had in his 
mind no shadow of a doubt. And, as the 
reader knows, he was right. She had 
stolen them. Mr. Camperdown knew 
that she had stolen them, and was a 
•wretched man. From the first moment of 
the late Sir Florian’s infatuation about 
this woman, she had worked w'oe for Mr. 
Camperdown. Mr. Camperdown had 
striven hard, to the great and almost per- 
manent offence of Sir Florian, to save Por- 
tray from its present condition of degra- 
dation ; but he had striven in vain. Por- 
tray belonged to the harpy for her life; 
and moreover he himself had been forced 
to be instrumental in paying over to the 
harpy a large sum of Eustace money al- 
most immediately on her becoming a wid- 
ow. Then had come the affair of the dia- 
monds — an affair of ten thousand pounds ! 
— as Mr. Camperdown would exclaim to 
himself, throwing his eyes up to the ceil- 
ing. And now' it seemed that she w'as to 
get the better of him even in that, al- 
though there could not be a shadow of 
doubt as to her falsehood and fraudulent 
dishonesty ! His luck in the matter was 
so bad ! John Eustace had no backbone, 
no spirit, no proper feeling as to his own 
family. Lord Fawn was as weak as wa- 
ter, and almost disgraced the cause by the 
accident of his adherence to it. Grey- 
stock, W'ho would have been a tower of 
strength, had turned against him, and 
was now prepared to maintain that the 


harpy w'as right. ^Mr. Camperdow'n knew 
that the harpy was wrong, that she was a 
harpy, and he would not abandon the 
cause ; but the difficulties in his w'ay were 
great and the annoyance to w'hich he was 
subjected was excessive. His wdfe and 
daughters were still at Daw'lish, and he 
was up in tow'n in September, simply be- 
cause the harpy had the present possessiv.n 
of these diamonds. 

Mr. Camperdown w'as a man turned 
sixty, handsome, gray-haired, healthy, 
somewhat florid, and carrying in his face 
and person external signs of prosperity 
and that kind of self-assertion w'hich pros- 
perity always produces. But they w'ho 
knew him best were aware that he did not 
bear trouble well. In any trouble, such 
as was this about the necklace, there 
would come over his face a look of weak- 
ness which betraj^ed the want of real in- 
ner strength. How many faces one sees 
which, in ordinary circumstances, are 
comfortable, self-asserting, sufficient, and 
even bold ; the lines of which, under diffi- 
culties, collapse and become mean, spirit- 
less, and insignificant. There are faces 
which, in their usual form, seem to blus- 
ter with prosperity, but which the loss of 
a dozen points at whist will reduce to that 
currish aspect which reminds one of a dog- 
whip. Mr. CamperdoAvn’s countenance, 
when Lord Fawn and Mr. Eustace left 
him, had fallen away into this meanness 
of appearance. He ‘no longer carried 
himself as a man owning a dog-whip, but 
rather as the hound that feared it. 

A better attorney for the purposes to 
which his life was devoted did not exist 
in London than Mr. Camperdown. To 
say that he was honest is nothing. To 
describe him simply as zealous would be 
to fall very short of his merits. The in- 
terests of his clients were his own inter- 
ests, and the legal rights of the properties 
of which he had the legal charge were as 
dear to him as his own blood. But it 
could not be said of him that he was a 
learned lawyer. Perhaps in that branclj 
of a solicitor’s profession in which he hrd 
been called upon to work experience goes 
further than learning. It may be doubt- 
ed, indeed, whether it is not so in every 
branch of every profession. But it might, 
perhaps, have been better for Mr. Cam- 
perdown had he devoted more hours of his 
youth to reading books on conveyancing. 
He was now too old for such studies, and 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


127 


could trust only to the reading of other 
people. The reading, however, of other 
people was ahvays at his command, and 
hLs clients were rich men who did not 
mind paying for an opinion. To have an 
opinion from Mr. Dove, or some other 
learned gentleman, was the every-day 
practice of his life ; and when he obtained, 
as he often did, little coigns of legal van- 
tage and subtle definitions as to property 
which were comfortable to him, he would 
rejoice to think that he could always have 
a Dove at his hand to tell him exactly how 
far he was j ustified in going in defence of 
his clients’ interests. But now there had 
come to him no comfort from his corner of 
legal knowledge. Mr. Dove had taken 
extraordinary pains in the matter, and 
had simply succeeded in throwing over his 
employer. “ A necklace can’t be an heir- 
loom ! ” said 2ilr. Camperdown to himself, 
telling off on his fingers half a dozen in- 
stances in which he had either'known or 
had heard that the head of a family had 
so arranged the future possession of the 
family jewels. Then he again read Mr. 
Dove’s opinion, and actually took a law- 
book off his shelves with the view of test- 
ing the correctness of the barrister in ref- 
erence to some special assertion. A pot or 
a pan might be an heirloom, but not' a 
necklace ! Mr. Camperdown could hard- 
ly bring himself to believe that this was 
law. And then as to paraphernalia ! Up 
to this moment, though he had been called 
upon to arrange great dealings in refer- 
ence to widows, he had never as yet heard 
of a claim made by a widow for parapher- 
nalia. But then the widows with whom 
he had been called upon to deal had been 
ladies quite content to accept the good 
things settled upon them by the liberal 
prudence of their friends and husbands, 
not greedy, blood-sucking harpies f#ch as 
this Lady Eustace. It was quite terrible 
to Mr. Camperdown that one of his clients 
should have fallen into such a pit. Mors 
omnibus est communis. But to have left 
such a widow behind one ! 

“ John,” he said, opening his door. 
John was his son and partner, and John 
came to him, having been summoned by 
a clerk from another room. “Just 
shut the door. I’ve had such a scene 
here ; Lord Fawn and ^Mr. Greystock 
almost coming to blows about that horrid 
woman.” 

“ The Upper House would have got the 


worst of it, as it usually does,” said the 
younger attorney. 

“ And there is John Eustace cares no 
more what becomes of the property than 
if he had nothing to do with it ; absolute- 
ly talks of replacing the diamonds out of 
his own pocket ; a man whose personal in- 
terest in the estate is by no means equal 
to her OAvn.” 

“He wouldn’t do it, you know,” said 
CamperdoAvn Junior, who did not knoAV 
the family. 

“ It’s just what he Avould do,” said the 
father, who did. “ There’s nothing they 
Avouldn’t give aAvay when once the idea 
takes them. Think of that woman having 
the whole Portray estate, perhaps for the 
next sixty years — nearly the fee-simple of 
the property"— j list because she made eyes 
to Sir Florian.” 

“ That’s done and gone, father.” 

“ And here’s Dove tells us that a neck- 
lace can’t be an heirloom unless it belongs 
to the Crown.” 

“Whatever he says, you’d better take 
his word for it.” 

“ I’m not so sure of that ! It can’t be. 
I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go over and 
see him. AVe can file a bill in Chancery, 
I don’t doubt, and prove that the property 
belongs to the family and must go by the 
will. But she’ll sell them before we can 
get the custody of them.” 

“Perhaps she has done that already.” 

“ Greystock says they are at Portray, 
and I believe they are. She was wearing 
them in London only in July, a day or two 
before I saw her as she Avas leaving town. 
If anybody like a jeAveller had been doAvn 
at the castle, I should have heard of if. 
She hasn’t sold ’em yet, but she Avill.” 

“ She could do that just the same if 
they Avere an heirloom.” 

“No, John. I think not. We could 
have acted much more quickly and have 
frightened her.” 

“ If I were you, father\, I’d drop the 
matter altogether and let John Eustace 
replace them if he pleases. AYe all knoAV 
that he would neA'er be called on to do 
anything of the kind. It isn’t our sort of 
business.” 

“Not ten thousand pounds!” said 
CamperdoAvn Senior, to whom the magni- 
tude of the larceny almost ennobled the 
otherwise mean duty of catching the thief. 
Then Mr. Camperdown rose, and slowly 
walked across the NeAV Square, Lincoln’s 


128 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Inn, under the low archway, by the entrance 
to the old court in which Lord Eldon used 
to sit, to the Old Square, in which the 
Turtle Dove had built his legal nest on a 
first floor, close to the old gateway. 

Mr. Dove was a gentleman who spent 
a very great portion of his life in tliis 
somewhat gloomy abode of learning. It 
was not now term time, and most of his 
brethren were absent from London, re- 
cruiting their strength among the Alps, 
or drinking in vigor for fresh campaigns 
with the salt sea breezes of Kent and Sus- 
sex, or perhaps shooting deer in Scotland, 
or catching fish in Connemara. But Mr. 
Dove was a man of iron, who wanted no 
such recreation. To be absent from his 
laAV-books and the black, littered, ink- 
stained old table on which he was wont to 
write his opinions, Avas, to him, to be 
Avretched. The only exercise necessary to 
him Avas that of putting on his Avig and 
going into one of the courts that were 
close to his chambers ; but CA'en that was 
almost distasteful to him. He preferred 
sitting in his old arm-chair, turning over 
his old books in search of old cases, and 
producing opinions Avhich he would be 
prepared to back against all the world of 
Lincoln’s Inn. He and Mr. CamperdoAvn 
had knoAvn each otlier intimately for many 
j’ears, and though the rank of the tAA'o 
men in their profession difiered much, 
they were able to discuss questions of laAV 
without any appreciation of that difier- 
ence between themselves. The one man 
knew much, and the other little ; the one 
was not only learned, but pos.sessed also 
of great gifts, Avhile the other Avas simply 
an ordinary clear-headed man of business ; 
but they had S3mipathies in common which 
made them friends ; they Avere both hon- 
est and unwilling to sell their services to 
dishonest customers; and they equally 
entertained a deep-rooted contempt for 
that portion of mankind Avho thought 
that property could be managed and pro- 
tected Avithoutthe intervention of laAvj'ers. 
The outside Avorld to them Avas a AAmrld of 
pretty, laughing, ignorant children ; and 
lawyers Avere the parents, guardians, pas- 
tors, and masters, by Avhom the children 
should be protected from the evils inci- 
dent to their childishness. 

“ Yes, sir; he’s here,” said the Turtle 
Dove’s clerk. “He is talking of going 
away, but he won’t go. He’s told me I 
can have a week, but I don't knoAV that I 


like to leave him. Mrs. DoA'e and the 
children are down at Ramsgate, and he’s 
here all night. He hadn’t been out for 
so long that when he wanted to go as far 
as the Temple yesterday Ave couldn’t find 
his hat.” Then the clerk opened the 
door, and ushered Mr. Camperdown into 
the room. Mr. Dove was the younger 
man by five or six years, and his hair was 
still black. Mr. CamperdoAvn’s Avas near 
er white than gray ; but, nevertheless, 
Mr. Camperdown looked as though he 
Avere the younger man. Mr. Dove was a 
long, thin man, Avith a stoop in his shoul- 
ders, Avith deep-set, hollow eyes, and lan- 
ten cheeks, and sallow complexion, with 
long, thin hands, who seemed to acknowl- 
edge by every movement of his body and 
every tone of his voice that old age Avas 
creeping on him; Avhereas the attorney's 
step AA'as still elastic, and his speech 
brisk. Mr. CamperdoAvn Avore a blue 
frock-coat, and a colored cravat, and a 
light AAmistcoat. With Mr. Dove every 
visible article of his raiment Avas black, 
except his shirt, and he had that peculiar 
blackness Avhich a man achieves Avhen he 
wears a dress-coat over a high black wai.^t- 
coat in the morning. 

“ You didn’t make much, I fear, of 
what I sent 3'ou about heirlooms,” said 
Mr. Dove, divining the purport of Mr. 
CaniperdoAvn’s visit. 

“A great deal more than I AA'anted, I 
can assure you, Mr. Dove.” 

“ There is a common error about heir- 
looms.” 

“Very common, indeed, I should saj'. 
God bless ray soul ! Avhen one knoAvs hoAV 
often the Avord occurs in family deeds, it 
does startle one to be told that there isn’t 
any such thing.” 

“ I don’t think I said quite so much as 
that.$ Indeed, I was careful to point out 
that the law does acknoAvledge heir- 
looms.” 

“ But not diamonds,” said the attorney. 

“ I doubt Avhether I Avent quite so far 
as that.” 

“ Onl^’ the CroAvn diamonds.” 

“ I don’t think I even debarred all other 
diamonds. A diamond in a star of honor 
might form a part of an heirloom ; but I 
do not think that a diamond itself could 
be an heirloom.” 

“If in a star of honor, wh}" not in a 
necklace? ” argued Mr. Camperdown al- 
most triumphantl}". 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


129 


“ Because a star of honor, unless tam- 
pered with by fraud, would naturally be 
maintained in its original form. The set- 
ting of a necklace will probably be altered 
from generation to generation. The one, 
like a picture or a precious piece of furni- 
ture ’ ’ 

“ Or a pot or a pan,” said Mr. Camper- 
down, with sarcasm. 

“ Pots and pans may be precious, too,” 
replied 3Ir. Dove. “ Such things can be 
traced, and can be held as heirlooms 
without imposing too great difficulties on 
their guardians. The Law is generally 
very wise and prudent, Mr. Camperdown ; 

_ much more so often than are they who at- 
tempt to improve it.” 

“ I quite agree with you there, Mr. 
Dove.” 

“Would the Law do a service, do you 
think, if it lent its authority to the special 
preservation in special hands of trinkets 
only to be used for vanity and ornament ? 
Is that a kind of property over which an 
owner should have a power of disposition 
more lasting, more autocratic, than is 
given him even in regard to land ? The 
land, at any rate, can be traced. It is a 
thing fixed and known. A string of 
pearls is not only alterable, but constantly 
altered, and cannot easily be traced.” 

“ Property of such enormous value 
should, at any rate, be protected,” said 
Mr. Camperdown indignantly. 

“ All property is protected, Mr. Cam- 
perdown; although, as we know too well, 
such protection can never be perfect. But 
the system of heirlooms, if there can be 
said to be such a system, was not devised 
for what you and I mean -when we talk of 
protection of property.” 

“ I should have said that that was just 
what it was devised for.” 

“ I think not. It was devised with the 
more picturesque idea of maintaining 
chivalric associations. Heirlooms have 
become so, not that the future owners of 
them may be assured of so much wealth, 
whatever the value of the thing so settled 
may be, but that the son or grandson or 
descendant may enjoy the satisfaction 
which is derived from saying, My father 
or my grandfather or my ancestor sat in 
that' chair, or looked as he now looks in 
that picture, or was graced by wearing on 
his breast that very ornament which you 
now see lying beneath the glass. Crown 
jewels are heirlooms in the same way, as 
9 


representing not the possession of the 
sovereign, but the time-honored dignity 
of the Crown. The Law, which, in gen- 
eral, concerns itself with our property or 
lives and our liberties, has in this mattei 
bowed gracefully to the spirit of chivalry 
and has lent its aid to romance ! but it 
certainly did not do so to enable the dis- 
cordant heirs of a rich man to settle a 
simple dirty question of money, which, 
wdth ordinary prudence, the rich man 
should himself have settled before he 



The Turtle Dove had spoken wdth em- 
phasis and had spoken well, and Mr. 
Camperdown had not ventured to inter- 
rupt him while he was speaking. He 
■was sitting far back on his chair, but 
with his neck bent and with his head for- 
ward, rubbing his long thin hands slowly 
over each other, and with his deep bright 
eyes firmly fixed on his companion’s face. 
Mr. Camperdown had not unfrequentlj’’ 
heard him speak in the same fashion be- 
fore, and was accustomed to his manner 
of unravelling the mysteries and search- 
ing into the causes of Law with a spirit 
which almost lent a poetry to the subject. 
When Mr. Dove would do so, Mr. Cam- 
perdoAvn would not quite understand the 
words spoken, but he would listen to 
them with an undoubting reverence. 
And he did understand th^i in part, and 
was conscious of an infusion of a certain 
amount of poetic spirit into his own 
bosom. He would think of these speeches 
afterwards, and would entertain high but 
somewhat cloudy ideas of the beauty and 
the majesty of Law. Mr. Dove’s speeches 
did Mr. Camperdown good, and helped 
to preserve him from that worst of all 
diseases, a low idea of humanity. 

“ You think, then, we had better not 
claim them as heirlooms? ” he asked. 

“ I think you had better not.” 

“ And you think that she could claim 
them — as paraphernalia.” 

“ That question has hardly been put to 
me, though I allowed myself to wander 
into it. But for my intimacy with you, 
I should hardly have ventured to stray so 
far.” 

“ I need hardly say how much obliged 
we are. But we will submit one or two 
other cases to you.” 

“I am inclined to think the court 
■would not allo^w them to her as parapher- 
nalia, seeing that their value is excessive 


130 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


as compared "with her income and degree ; 
but if it did, it would do so in a fashion 
that would guard them from alienation.” 

“She would sell them — under the rose.” 

“ Then she would be guilty of stealing 
them, which she would hardly attempt, 
even if not restrained by honesty, know- 
ing, as she would know, that the great- 
ness of the value would almost assuredly 
lead to detection. The same feeling 
would prevent buyers from purchasing.” 

“She says, you know, that they were 
given to her, absolutely.” 

“ I should like to know the circum- 
stances.” 

“ Yes ; of course.” 

“ But I should be disposed to think that 
in equity no allegation by the receiver of 
such a gift, unsubstantiated either by evi- 
dence or by deed, would be allowed to 
stand. The gentleman left behind him a 
will, and regular settlements. I should 
think that the possesvsion of these diamonds 
— ^not, I presume, touched on in the settle- 
ments ” 

“Oh dear no; not a word about them.” 

“ I should think, then, that, subject to 
any claim to paraphernalia, the posses- 
sion of the diamonds would be ruled by 
the will.” Mr. Camperdown was rush- 
ing into the further difficulty of chattels 
in Scotland and those in England^ when 
the Turtle Dove stopped him, declaring 
that he could not venture to discuss mat- 
ters as to which he knew none of the facts. 

“Of course not; of course not,” said 
Mr. Camperdown. “ We’ll have cases 
prepared. I’d apologize for coming at all, 
only that I get so much from a few words. ’ ’ 

“ I’m always delighted to see you, Mr. 
CamperdoAvn,” said the Turtle Dove, 
Ixiwing 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

I HAD BETTER GO AWAY. 

When Lord Fawn gave a sudden jump 
and stalked away towards the house on 
that Sunday morning before breakfast, 
Lucy Morris was a very unhappy girl. 
She had a second time accused Lord Fawn 
of speaking an untruth. She did not 
quite understand the usages of the world 
in the matter ; but she did know that the 
one offence which a gentleman is supposed 
never to commit is that of speaking an 
untruth. The offence may be one com- 


mitted oftener than any other by gentle- 
men — as also by all other people ; but, 
nevertheless, it is regarded by the usages 
of society as^being the one thing which a 
gentleman never does. Of all this Lucy 
understood something. The word “ lie ” 
she knew to be utterly abominable. That 
Lizzie Eustace was a little liar had been 
acknowledged between herself and the 
Fawn girls very often ; but to have told 
Lady Eustace that any word spoken by 
her was a lie would huA'e been a worse 
crime than the lie itself. To have brought 
such an accusation, in that form, against 
Lord Fawn, would have been to degrade 
herself forever. Was there any difference 
between a lie and an untruth? That one 
must be, and that the other need not be, 
intentional, she did feel ; but she felt also 
that the less offensive Avord had come to 
mean a lie — the world having been driven 
so to use it because the world did not dare 
to talk about lies ; and this word, bearing 
such a meaning in common parlance, she 
had tAvice ai^plied to Lord FavAm. And 
yet, as she was well aAvare, Lord Fawn 
had told no lie. He had himself believed 
every AA'ord that he had spoken against 
Frank Greystock. That he had l>een 
guilty of unmanly cruelty in so speaking 
of her lover in her presence Lucy still 
thought, but she should not therefore 
have accused him of falsehood. “It was 
untrue all the same,” she said to herself, 
as she stood still on the gravel Avalk, 
watching the rapid disappearance of Lord 
FaAvn, and endeavoring to think what she 
had better no ay do with herself. Of course 
Lord Fawn, like a great child, would at 
once go and tell his mother what that 
Avicked governess had said to him. 

In the hall she met her friend Lydia. 
“Oh, Lucy, what is the matter with Fred- 
eric? ” she asked. 

“ Lord FaAvn is very angry indeed.” 

“ With you ? ” 

“Yes ; Avith me. He is so angry that I 
am sure he would not sit down to break- 
fast with me. So I won’t come down. 
Will you tell your mamma? If she likes 
to send to me, of course I’ll go to her at 
once.” 

“ What have you done, Lucy ? ” 

“ I’ve told him again tliat what he said 
Avasn’t true.” 

“But why?” 

“Because — oh, how can I say why? 
Why does any person do everything that 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


131 


she ought not to do? It's the fall of Adam, 
I suppose.” 

“ You shouldn’t make a joke of it, 
Luc3^” 

“ You can have no conception how un- 
happy I am about it. Of course Lady 
Fawn will tell me to go away. I went 
out on purpose to beg his pardon for what 
I said last night, and I just said the very 
same thing again.” 

“ But why did you say it? ” 

“ And I should say it again and again 
and again, if he were to go on telling me 
that Mr. Greystock isn’t a gentleman. I 
don’t think he ought to have done it. Of 
course I have been very wrong ; I know 
that. But I think he has been wrong too. 
But I must own it and he needn’t. I’ll 
go up now and stay in my own room till 
3'our mamma sends for me.” 

“ And I’ll get Jane to bring you some 
breakfast.” 

“ I don’t care a bit about breakfast,” 
said Lucy. 

Lord Fawn did tell his mother, and 
Lady Fawn was perplexed in the extreme. 
She was divided in her judgment and feel- 
ings between the privilege due to Lucy as 
a girl possessed of an authorized lover — a 
privilege which no doubt existed, but 
which was not extensive — and the very 
much greater privilege which attached to 
Lord Fawn as a man, as a peer, as an Un- 
der-Secretary of State, but which attach- 
ed to him especially as the head and only 
man belonging to the Fawn family. Such 
a one, when, moved by filial duty, he con- 
descends to come once a week to hLs moth- 
er’s house, is entitled to say whatever he 
pleases, and should on no account be con- 
tradicted by any one. Lucy no doubt had 
a lover, an authorized lover ; but perhaps 
that fact could not be takeij as more than 
a balancing weight against the inferiority 
of her position as a governess. Lady 
Fawn was of course obliged to take her 
son’s part and would scold Lucy. Lucy 
must be scolded very seriously. But it 
would be a thing so desirable if Lucy 
could be induced to accept her scolding 
and have done with it, and not to make 
matters worse by talking of going away ! 
“You don’t mean that she came out into 
the shrubbery, having made up her mind 
to be rude to you? ” said Lady Fawn to 
her son. 

“ No ; I do not think that. But her 
temper is so ungovernable, and she has, if 


I may say so, been so spoiled among you 
here — I mean by the girls, of course — that 
she does not know how to restrain her- 
self.” 

“ She is as good as gold, you know, 
Frederic.” He shrugged his shoulders 
and declared that he had not a word more 
to say about it. He could of course re- 
main in London till it should suit Mr. 
Greystock to take his bride. “ You’ll 
break my heart if you say that,” exclaim- 
ed the unhappy mother. “ Of course she 
shall leave the house if j^ou wish it.” 

“ I wish nothing,” said Lord Fawn. 
“ But I peculiarly object to be told that 1 
am a — liar . ’ ’ Then he stalked away along 
the corridor and went down to breakfast 
as black as a thundercloud. 

Lad3^ Fawn and Lucy sat opposite to 
each other in church, but they did not 
speak till the afternoon. Lady Fawn 
went to church in the carriage and Lucy 
walked, and as Lucy retired to her room 
immediately on her return to the house, 
there had not been an opportunity even 
for a word. After lunch Amelia came up 
to her and sat down for a long discussion. 
“Now, Lucy, something must be done, 
you know,” said Amelia. 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ Of course mamma must see 3^ou. She 
can’t allow things to go on in this way. 
^lamina is very unhappy, and didn’t eat a 
morsel of breakfast.” By this latter as- 
sertion Amelia simply intended to imply 
that her mother had refused to be helped 
a second time to fried bacon, as was cus- 
tomary. 

“ Of course I shall go to her tlie moment 
she sends for me. Oh, I am so unhaj)- 
py ! ” 

“ I don’t wonder at that, Lucy. So is 
my brother unhapp3^ These things make 
people unhappy. It is what the world 
calls temper, 3’ou know, Lucy.” 

“ AYhy did he tell me that Mr. Grey- 
stock isn’t a gentleman? Mr. Greystock 
is a gentleman. I meant to say nothing 
more than that.” 

“ But you did say more, Lucy.” 

“ When he said fhat Mr. Greystock 
wasn’t a gentleman I told him it wasn’t 
true.* Why did he say it? He knows all 
about it. Everybody knows. Would you 
think it wise to come and abuse him to 
me when you know what he is to me ? I 
can’t bear it, and I won’t. I’ll go away 
to-morrow if your mamma wishes it.” 


1^2 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


But that going away was just what Lady 
Fawn did not wish. 

“ I think you know, Lucy, you should 
express your deep sorrow at what has 
passed.” 

“ To your brother? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Then he would abuse Mr. Greystock 
again, and it would all be as bad as ever. 
ITl beg Lord Fawn’s pardon if he’ll prom- 
ise beforehand not to say a word about 
^Ir. Greystock.” 

“You can’t expect him to make a bar- 
gain like that, Lucy.” 

“I suppose not. I dare say I’m very 
wicked, and I must be left wicked. I’m 
too wicked to stay here. That’s the long 
and the short of it.” 

“ I’m afraid you’re proud, Lucy.” 

“ I suppose I am. If it wasn’t for all 
that I owe to everybody here, and that I 
love you all so much, I should be proud 
of being proud, because of Mr. Grey- 
stock. Only it kills me to make Lady 
Fawn unhappy.” 

Amelia left the culprit, feeling that no 
good had been done, and Lady Fawn did 
not see the delinquent till late in the af- 
ternoon. Lord Fawn had in the mean 
time wandered out along the river all 
alone to brood over the condition of his 
affairs. It had been an evil day for him 
in which he had first seen Lady Eustace. 
From the first moment of his engagement 
to her he had been an unhappy man. Her 
treatment of him, the stories which reach- 
ed his ears from Mrs. Hittaway and 
others, Mr. Camperdown’s threats of law 
in regard to the diamonds, and Frank 
Greystock’s insults, altogether made him 
aware that he could not possibly marry 
Lady Eustace. But yet he had no proper 
and becoming way of escaping from the 
bonds of his engagement. He was a man 
with a conscience, and was made misera- 
ble by the idea of behaving badly to a 
woman. Perhaps it might have been dif- 
ficult to analyze his misery and to decide 
how much arose from the feeling that he 
was behaving badly, and how much from 
the conviction that the world would ac- 
cuse him of doing so ; but between the 
two he was wretched enough. The pun- 
ishment of the offence had been com- 
menced by Greystock’s unavenged insults, 
and it now seemed to him that this girl’s 
conduct was a continuation of it. The 
world was already beginning to treat him 


with that want of respect which he so 
greatly dreaded. He knew that he was 
too weak to stand up against a widely- 
spread expression of opinion that he had 
behaved badly. There are men who can 
walk about the streets with composed 
countenancas, take their seats in Parlia- 
ment if they happen to have seats, work 
in their offices or their chambers or their 
counting-houses with diligence, and go 
about the world serenely, even though 
everybody be saying evil of them behind 
their backs. Such men can live down 
temporary calumny, and almost take a de- 
light in the isolation which it will pro- 
duce. Lord Fawn knew well that he was 
not such a man. He would have describ- 
ed his own weakness as caused, per- 
haps, by a too thin-skinned sensitiveness. 
Those who knew him were inclined to say 
that he lacked strength of character, and 
perhaps courage. 

He had certainly engaged himself to 
marry this widow, and he was most desi- 
rous to do what was right. He had said 
that he would not marry her unless she 
would give up the necklace, and he was 
most desirous to be true to his word. He 
had been twice insulted, and he Avas anx- 
ious to support these injuries with digni- 
ty. Poor Lucy’s little offence against him 
rankled in his mind with the other great 
offences. That this humble friend of his 
mother’s should have been so insolent 
was a terrible thing to him. He was not 
sure even whether his own sisters did not 
treat him with scantier reverence than of 
yore. And yet he was so anxious to do 
right, and do his duty in that state of life 
to which it had pleased God to call him ! 
As to much he Avas in doubt ; but of tAvo 
things he was quite sure — that Frank 
Greystock Avas -a scoundrel, and that Lucy 
Morris was the most impertinent young 
Avoman in England. 

“ What would 5’ou wish to have done, 
Frederic? ” his mother said to him on his 
return. 

“ In what respect, mother? ” 

“ About Lucy Morris ? I have not seen 
her yet. I have thought it better that she 
should be left to herself for a while before 
I did so. I suppose she must come doAvn 
to dinner. She always does.” 

“ I do not wish to interfere with the 
young lady’s meals.” 

‘ ‘ No ; but about meeting her ? If there 
is to be no talking, it will be so very un- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


183 


pleasant. It Avill be unpleasant to us all, 
but I am thinking chiefly of you.” 

“ I do not wish anybody to.be disturbed 
for my comfort.” A young woman com- 
ing down to dinner as though in disgrace, 
and not being spoken to by any one, 
would in truth have had rather a soothing 
efiect upon Lord Fawn, who would have 
felt that the general silence and dulness had 
been produced as a sacrifice in his honor. 

“ I can, of course, insist that she should 
apologize ; but if she refuses, what shall 
Ido then?” 

“ Let there be no more apologies if you 
please, mother.” 

“ What shall I do then, Frederic?” 

“ ^liss jMorris’s idea of an apology is a 
repetition of her offence with increased 
rudeness. It is not for me to say what 
you should do. If it be true that she is 
engaged to that man ” 

“ It is. true, certainly.” 

“ No doubt that will make her quite in- 
dependent of you, and I can understand 
that her presence here in such circum- 
stances must be very uncomfortable to you 
all. No doubt she feels her power.” 

“ Indeed, Frederic, you do not know 
her.” 

“ I can hardly say that I desire to know 
her better. You cannot suppose that I 
can be anxious for further intimacy with 
a 5 " 0 ung lady who has twice given me the 
lie in your house. Such conduct is, at 
least, very unusual ; and as no absolute 
punishment can be inflicted, the offender 
can only be avoided. It is thus, and thus 
only, that such offences can be punished. 

I shall be satisfied if you will give her to 
understand that I should prefer that she 
should not address me again.” 

Poor Lady Fawn was beginning to think 
that Lucy was right in saying that there 
was no remedy for all these evils but that 
she should go away. But whither was 
she to go? She had no home but such 
home as she could earn for herself by her 
sendees as a governess, and in her present 
position it was alnaost out of the question 
that she should seek another place. Lady 
Fawn, too, felt that she had pledged her- 
self to ;Mr. Greystock that till next year 
Lucy should have a home at Fawn Court. 
Mr. Greystock, indeed, was now an ene- 
my to the family ; but Lucy was not an en- 
emy, and it was out of the question that 
she should be treated with real enmity. 
She might be scolded, and scowled at, and I 


put into a kind of drawing-room Coventry 
for a time, so that all kindly intercourse 
with her should be confined to school- 
room work and bedroom conferences. She 
could be generally “ sat upon,” as Nina 
would call it. But as for quarrelling with 
her, making a real enemy of one whom 
they all loved, one whom Lady Fawn 
knew to be “ as good as gold,” one who 
had become so dear to the old lady that 
actual extrusion from their family affec- 
tions would be like the cutting off of a 
limb, that was simply impossible. “1 
suppose I had better go and see her,” 
said Lady Fawn, “ and I have got such a 
headache ! ” 

“ Do not see her on my account,” said 
Lord Fawn. The duty, hoAvever, was ob- 
ligatory, and Lady Fawn with sIoav steps" 
sought Lucy in the schoolroom. 

“ Lucy,” she said, seating herself, 
“ what is to be the end of all this ? ” 

Lucy came up to her and knelt at her 
feet. “If you knew how unhappy I am 
because I have vexed you.” 

“I am unhappy, my dear, because 1 
think you have been betra 3 ’’ed by warm 
temper into misbehavior.” 

“ I know I have.” 

“Then why do you not control your 
temper? ” 

“ If anybody were to come to you. Lady 
Fawn, and make horrible accusations 
against Lord Fawn or against Augusta, 
would not you be angry ? Would you be 
able to stand it? ” 

Lady Fawn was not clear-headed ; she 
was not clever ; nor was she even always 
rational. But she was essentially honest. 
She knew that she would fly at anybody 
who should in her presence say such bit- 
ter things of any of her children as Lord 
Fawn had said of ^Ir. Greystock in Lucy’s 
hearing ; and she knew also that Lucy 
was entitled to hold Mr. Greystock as 
dearly as she held her own son and 
daughters. Lord Fawn, at Fawn Court, 
could not do wrong. ‘That was a tenet by 
which she was obliged to hold fast. And 
yet Lucy had been subjected to great 
cruelty. She thought awhile for a valid 
argument. “ My dear,” she said, “your 
youth should make a difference.” 

“ Of course it should.” 

“ And though to me and to tlie girls you 
are as dear as any friend can be, and may 
say just what you please. Indeed, we all 
live here in such a way that we all do say 


134 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


just what we please, young and old to- 
gether. But you ought to know that 
Lord Fawn is different.” 

“ Ought he to say that Mr. Greystock 
is not a gentleman to me? ” 

“ We are, of course, very sorry that 
there should be any quarrel. It is all the 
fault of that — nasty, false young woman.” 

“So it is. Lady Fawn. Lady Fawn, I 
have been thinking about it all the day, 
and I am quite sure that I had better not 
stay here while you and the girls think 
badly of Mr. Greystock. It is not only 
about Lord Fawn, but because of the whole 
thing. I am always wanting to say some- 
thing good about Mr. Greystock, and you 
are always thinking something bad about 
him. You have been to me, oh, the very 
best friend that a girl ever had. Why 
you should have treated me so generously 
I never could know.” 

“ Because we have loved you.” 

“But when a girl has got a man whom 
she loves, and has promised to marry, he 
must be her best friend of all. Is it not 
so. Lady Fawn ? ” The old woman stoop- 
ed down and kissed the girl who had got 
t!ie man. “It is not ingratitude to you 
that makes me think most of him ; is it? ” 

“ Certainly not, dear.” 

“ Then I had better go away.” 

“ But where will you go, Lucy? ” 

“ I will consult Mr. Greystock.” 

“But what can he do, Lucy? It will 
only be a trouble to him. He can’t find a 
home for you.” 

“ Perhaps they would have me at the 
deanery,” said Lucy slowly. She had 
evidently been thinking much of it all. 
“ And, Lady Fawn, I will not go down 
stairs while Lord Fawn is here ; and when 
he comes, if he does come again while I 
am here, he shall not be troubled by see- 
ing me. He may be sure of that. And 
you may tell him that I don’t defend my- 
self, only I shall always think that he 
ought not to have said that Mr. Grey- 
stock wasn’t a gentleman before me.” 
When Lady Fawn left Lucy the matter 
was so far settled that Lucy had neither 
been asked to come down to dinner, nor 
had she been forbidden to seek another 
home. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

MR. GREYSTOCk’s TROUBLES. 

Frank Greystock staid the Sunday in 
London and went down to Bobsborough 


on the Monday. His father and mother 
and sister all knew of his engagement to 
Lucy, and they had heard also that Lady 
Eustace was to become Lady Fawn. Of 
the necklace they had hitherto heard very 
little, and of the quarrel between the two 
lovers they had heard nothing. There 
had been many misgivings at the deanery, 
and some regrets, about these marriages. 
Mrs. Greystock, Frank’s mother, was, as 
we are so wont to say of many women, the 
best woman in the world. She was un- 
selfish, affectionate, charitable, and thor- 
oughly feminine. But she did think that 
her son Frank, with all his advantages, 
good looks, cleverness, general popularity, 
and seat in Parliament, might just as well 
marry an heiress as a little girl without 
twopence in the world. As for herself, 
who had been born a Jackson, she could 
do with very little; but the Greystocks 
were all people who wanted money. For 
them there was never more than nine- 
pence in a shilling, if so much. They 
were a race who could not pay their way 
with moderate incomes. Even the dear 
dean, who really had a conscience about 
money, and who hardly ever left Bobs- 
borough, could not be kept quite clear of 
debt, let her do what she would. As Tor 
the admiral, the dean’s elder brother, he 
had been notorious for insolvency ; and 
Frank was a Grei^stock all over. He was 
the ver}^ man to whom money with a wife 
was almost a necessity of existence. 

And his pretty cousin, the widow, who 
was devoted to him, and would have mar- 
ried him at a 'word, had ever so many 
thousands a year ! Of course Lizzie Eus- 
tace was not just all that she should be , 
but then who is? In one respect, at any 
rate, her conduct had always been proper. 
There was no rumor against her as tq 
lovers or flirtations. She was very young, 
and Frank might have moulded her as he 
pleased. Of course there were regrets. 
Poor dear little Lucy Morris was as good 
as gold. Mrs. Greystock was quite will-' 
ing to admit that. She was not gooff- 
looking ; so at least Mrs. Greystock said. 
She never would allow that Lucy was 
good-looking. And she didn’t see much 
in Lucy, who, according to her idea, was 
a little chit of a thing. Her position was 
simply that of a governess. Mrs. Grey- 
stock declared to her daughter that no one 
in the whole world had a higher respect 
for governesses than had she. But a gov- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


13a 


erness is a governess ; and for a man in 
Frank’s position such a marriage would 
be simply suicide. 

“You shouldn’t say that, mamma, 
now; for it’s fixed,” said Ellinor Grey- 
stock. 

“ But I do say it, my dear. Things 
sometimes are fixed which must be un- 
fixed. You know your brother.” 

“Frank is earning a large income, 
mamma.” 

“ Did you ever know a Greystock who 
didn’t want more than his income? ” 

“ I hope I don’t, mamma, and mine is 
very small.” 

“ You’re a Jackson. Frank is Grey- 
stock to the very backbone. If he mar- 
ries Lucy Morris he must give up Parlia- 
ment. That’s all.” 

The dean himself was more reticent 
and less given to interference than his 
wife ; but he felt it also. He would not 
for the world have hinted to his son 
that it might be well to marry money ; 
but he thought that it was a good thing 
that his son should go where money was. 
He knew that Frank was apt to spend his 
guineas faster than he got them. All his 
life long the dean had seen what came of 
such spending. Frank had gone out into 
the world and had prospered, but he could 
hardly continue to prosper unless he mar- 
ried money. Of course there had been re- 
grets when the news came of that fa- 
tal engagement with Lucy Morris. “It 
can’t be for the next ten years, at any 
rate,” said Mrs. Greystock. 

“ I thought at one time that he would 
have made a match with his cousin,” said 
the dean. 

“ Of course ; so did everybody,” replied 
Mrs, Dean. 

Then Frank came among them. He 
had intended staying some weeks, perhaps 
for a month, and great preparations were 
made for him ; but immediately on his 
arrival he announced the necessity that 
was incumbent on him of going down 
again to Scotland in ten days. “You’ve 
heard about Lizzie, of course ; ” he said. 
They had heard that Lizzie was to become 
Lady Fawn, but beyond that they had 
heard nothing. “ You know about the 
necklace? ” asked Frank. Something of 
a tale of a necklace had made its way 
even down to quiet Bobsborougb. They 
had been informed that there was a dis- 
pute between the widow and the execu- 


tors of the Sir Florian about some dia- 
monds. “ Lord Fawn is behaving about 
it in the most atrocious manner,” con- 
tinued Frank, “and the long and the 
short of it is that there will be no mar- 
riage ! ” 

“ No marriage ! ” exclaimed IMrs. Grey- 
otock. 

“ And what is the truth about the dia- 
monds? ” asked the dean. 

“ Ah ; it will give the lawyers a job 
before they decide that. They’re very 
valuable ; worth about ten thousand 
pounds, I’m told ; but the most of it will 
go among some of my friends at the Chan- 
cery bar. It’s a pity that 1 should be out 
of the scramble myself.” 

“ But why should you be out? ” asked 
his mother with tender regrets, not think- 
ing of the matter as her son was thinking 
of it, but feeling that when there was so 
much, wealth so very near him, he ought 
not to let it all go past him. 

“ As far as I can see,” continued 
Frank, “ she has a fair claim to them. T 
suppose they’ll file a bill in Chancery, 
and then it will be out of my line alto- 
gether. She says her husband gave tliem 
to her, absolutely put them on her neck 
himself, and told her that they were hei-s. 
As to their being an heirloom, that turns 
out to be impossible. I didn’t know it, 
but it seems you can’t make diamonds an 
heirloom. What astonishes me is, that 
Fawn should object to the necklace. 
However, he has objected, and has simply 
told her that he won’t marry her unless 
she gives them up.” 

“ And what does she say? ” 

“Storms and raves, as of course any 
woman would. I don’t think she is be- 
having badly.* AYhat she wants is, to re- 
duce him to obedience, and then to dis- 
miss him. I think that is no more than 
fair. Nothing on earth would make her 
marry him now.” 

“ Did she ever care for him? ” 

“ I don’t think she ever did. She found 
her position to be troublesome, and she 
thought she had better marry. And then 
he’s a lord, which always goes for some- 
thing.” 

“ I am sorry you should have so much 
trouble,” said Mrs. Greystock. But in 
truth the mother was not sorry. She did 
not declare to herself that it would be a 
good thing that her son should be false to 
Lucy Morris in order that he might marry 


136 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


his rich cousin ; but she did feel it to be 
an advantage that he should be on terms 
of intimacy with so large an income as 
that belonging to Lady Eustace. “ Doan’t 
thou marry for munny, but goa where 
munny is.” Mrs. Grej'stock would have 
repudiated the idea of mercenary mar- 
riages in any ordinary conversation, and 
would have been severe on any gentleman 
who was false to a young lady. But it is 
so hard to bring one’s general principles 
to bear on one’s own conduct or in one’s 
own family ; and then the Greystocks 
were so peculiar a people! AVhen her 
son told her that he must go down to 
Scotland again very shortly, she recon- 
ciled herself to his loss. Had he left 
Bobsborough for the sake of being near 
Lucy at Richmond, she would have felt it 
very keenly. 

Days passed by, and nothing was said 
about poor Lucy. Mrs. Greystock had 
made up her mind that she would say 
nothing on the subject. Lucy had be- 
haved badly in allowing herself to be 
loved by a man who ought to have loved 
money, and Mrs. Greystock had resolved 
that she would show her feelings by si- 
lence. The dean had formed no fixed de- 
termination, but he had thought that it 
might be, perhaps, as well to drop the 
subject. Frank himself was unhappy 
about it ; but from morning to evening, 
and from day to day, he allowed it to pass 
by without a word. He knew that it 
should not be so, that silence was in truth 
treachery to Lucy ; but he w^as silent. 
VV^hat had he meant when, as he left Liz- 
zie Eustace among the rocks at Portray, 
in that last moment, he had assured her 
that he would be true to her ? And what 
had been Lizzie’s meaning? He was 
more sure of Lizzie’s meaning than he 
was of his own. “ It’s a very rough 
world to live in.” he said to himself, in 
these days, as he thought of his difficul- 
ties. 

But when he had been nearly a week at 
the deaner}^ and when the day of his 
going was so near as to be a matter of 
concern, his sister did at last venture to 
say a word about Lucy. ‘ ‘ I suppose there 
is nothing settled about your OAvn mar- 
riage, Frank? ” 

“ Nothing at all.” 

“ Nor will be for some while? ” 

“ Nor will be for some while.” This 
he said in a tone which he himself felt to 


be ill-humored and almost petulant. And 
he felt also that such ill-humor on such a 
subject was unkind, not to his sister, but 
to Lucy. It seemed to imply that the 
matter of his marriage was distasteful to 
him. “ The truth is,” he said, “ that 
nothing can be fixed. Lucy understands 
that as well as I do. I am not in a posi- 
tion at once to marry a girl who has noth- 
ing. It’s a pity, perhaps, that one can’t 
train one self to like some girl best that has 
got money ; but as I haven’t there must 
be some delay. She is to stay where she 
is, at any rate for a twelvemonth.” 

“ But you mean to see her? ” 

“ AVell, yes; I hardly know how I can 
see her, as I have quarrelled to the knife 
with Lord Fawn ; and Lord Fawn is re- 
cognized by his mother and sisters as the 
one living Jupiter upon earth.” 

“ I like them for that,” said Ellinor. 

“ Only it prevents my going to Rich- 
mond ; and poor Fawn himself is such an 
indifferent Jupiter.” 

That was all that was said about Lucy 
at Bobsborough, till there came a letter 
from Lucy to her Lover acquainting him 
with the circumstances of her unfortunate 
position at Richmond. She did not tell 
him quite all the circumstances. She did 
not repeat the strong expressions which 
Lord Fawn had used, nor did she clearly 
explain how wrathful she had been her- 
self. “Lord Fawn has been here,” she 
said, “and there has been ever so much 
unpleasantness. He is very angi-y with 
you about Lady Eustace, and of course 
Lady Fawn takes his part. I need not tell 
you whose part I take- And so there 
have been what the servants call, just a 
few words. It is very dreadful, isn’t it? 
And, after all. Lady Fawn has been as 
kind as possible. But the upshot of it is 
that I am not to stay here. You mustn’t 
suppose that I’m to be turned out at twelve 
hours’ notice. I am to stay till arrange- 
ments have been made, and everybody will 
be kind to me. But what had I better 
do? I’ll try and get another situation at 
once if you think it best, only I suppose I 
should have to explain how long I could 
stay. Lady Fawn knows that I am writ- 
ing to 5-ou to ask you what you think 
best.” 

On receipt of this Greystock was very 
much puzzled. What a little fool Lucy 
had been, and yet what a dear little fool I 
Who cared for Lord Fawn and his hard 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


137 


words? Of course Lord Fawn would say 
all manner of evil things of him, and 
would crow valiantly in his own farm- 
yard; but it would have been so much 
wiser on Lucy’s part to have put up with 
the crowing, and to have disregarded alto- 
gether the words of a man so weak and in- 
significant ! But the evil was done, and 
he must make some arrangement for poor 
Lucy’s comfort. Had he known exactly 
how matters stood, that the proposition as 
to Lucy’s departure had come wholly from 
herself, and that at the present time all 
the ladies at Fawn Court — of course in the 
absence of Lord FaAvn — were quite dis- 
posed to forgive Lucy if Lucy would only 
be forgiven, and hide herself when Lord 
Fawn should come ; had Frank known all 
this, he might, perhaps, have counselled 
her to remain at Kichmond. But he be- 
lieved that Lady Fawn had insisted on 
Lucy’s departure ; and of course, in such 
a case, Lucy must depart. He showed the 
letter to his sister, and asked for advice. 

“ How very unfortunate ! ” said Ellinor. 

“ Yes ; is it not? ” 

“I wonder what she said to Lord 
Fawn?” 

“ She would speak out very plainly.” 

“ I suppose she has spoken out plainly, 
or otherwise they would never have told 
her to go away. It seems so unlike what 
I have always heard of Lady Fawn.” 

“ Lucy can be very headstrong if she 
pleases,” said Lucy’s lover. ‘‘ What on 
earth had I better do for her? I don’t 
suppose she can get another place that 
would suit.” 

“ If she is to be your wife I don’t think 
she should go into another place. If it is 
quite fixed,” she said, and then she looked 
into her brother’s face. 

“ Well ; what then? ” 

“ If you are sure you mean it ” 

“ Of course I mean it.” 

“Then she had better come here. As 
for her going out as a governess, and tell- 
ing the people that she is to be your wife 
in a few months, that is out of the ques- 
tion. And it would, I think, be equally 
so that she should go into any house and 
not tell the truth. Of course this would 
be the place for her.” It was at last de- 
cided that Ellinor should discuss the mat- 
ter with her mother. 

When the whole matter was unfolded 
to Mrs. Greystock that lady was more 
troubled than ever. If Lucy were to come 


to the deanery, she must come as Frank’s 
affianced bride, and must be treated as 
such by all Bobsborougli. The dean 
would be giving his express sanction to 
the marriage, and so would IMrs. Grey- 
stock herself. She knew well that she 
had no power of refusing her sanction. 
Frank must do as he pleased about marry- 
ing. Were Lucy once his wife, of course 
she would be made welcome to the best 
the deanery could give her. There was 
no doubt about Lucy being as good as 
gold ; only that real gold, vile as it is, 
was the one thing that Frank so, much 
needed. The mother thought that she 
had discovered in her son something 
which seemed to indicate a possibility that 
this very imprudent match might at last 
be abandoned ; and if there were such 
possibility, surely Lucy ought notnow to 
be brought to the deanery. Neverthe- 
less, if Frank were to insist upon her 
coming, she must come. 

But Mrs. Greystock had a plan. “Oh, 
mamma,” said Ellinor, when the plan 
was proposed to her, “do not you think 
that would be cruel ? ” 

“Cruel, my dear! no; certainly not 
cruel.” 

“ She is such a virago.” 

“You think that because Lizzie Eus- 
tace has said so. I don’t know that she’s 
a virago at all. I believe her to be a very 
good sort of woman.” 

“ Do you remember, mamma, what the 
admiral used to say of her? ” 

“ The admiral, my dear, tried to bor- 
row her money, as he did everybody’s, 
and when she wouldn’t give him any, 
then he said severe things. The poor ad- 
miral was never to be trusted in such 
matters.” 

“ I don’t think Frank would like it,” 
said Ellinor. The plan Avas this. Lady 
Linlithgow, who, through her brother-in- 
laAV, the late Admiral Greystock, was 
connected with the dean’s family, had 
made known her desire to have a ncAV 
companion for six months. The lady was 
to be treated like a lady, but Avas to have 
no salary. Her travelling expenses were 
to be paid for her and no duties AA'ere to 
be expected from her, except that of talk- 
ing and listening to the countess. 

“ I really think it’s the A ery thing for 
her,” said Mrs. Greystock. “ It’s not 
like being a governess. She’s not to have 
any salary.” 


13? 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ 1 don’t know whether that makes it 
better, mamma.” 

“ It would just be a visit to Lady Lin- 
linthgow. It is that which makes the 
difference, my dear.” 

Ellinor felt sure that her brother would 
not hear of such an engagement, but he 
did hear of it, and, after various objec- 
tions, gave a sort of sanction to it. It 
was not to be pressed upon Lucy if Lucy 
disliked it. Lady Linlithgow was to be 
made to understand that Lucy might leave 
whenever she pleased. It was to be an 
invitation, which Lucy might accept if 
she were so minded. Lucy’s position as 
an honorable guest was to be assured to 
her. It was thought better that Lady 
Linlithgow should not be told of Lucy’s 
engagement unless she asked questions, 
or unless Lucy should choose to tell her. 
Every precaution was to be taken, and 
then Frank gave his sanction. He could 
understand, he said, that it might be in- 
expedient that Lucy should come at once 
to the deanery, as, were she to do so, she 
must remain there till her marriage, let 
the time be ever so long. “It might be 
tAvo years,” said the mother. “Hardly 
so long as that,” said the son. “ I don’t 
think it would be — quite fair — to papa,” 
said the mother. It was well that the 
argument was used behind the dean’s 
back, as, had it been made in his hearing,, 
the dean would have upset it at once.. 
The dean was so short-sighted and impru- 
den that he would have professed delight 
at the idea of having Lucy Morris as a 
resident at the deanery. Frank acceded 
to the argument, and was ashamed of 
himself for acceding. Ellinor did not ac- 
cede, nor did her sisters, but it was neces- 
sary that they should yield. Mrs. Grej"- 
stock at once wrote to Lady Linlithgow, 
and Frank wrote by the same post to 
Lucy Morris. “ As there must be a 
year’s delay,” he wrote, “Ave all here 
think it best that your visit to us should 


be postponed for a while. But if you ob- 
ject to the Linlithgow plan, say so at 
once. You shall be asked to do nothing 
disagreeable.” He found the letter very 
difficult to write. He knew that she 
ought to have been welcomed at once to 
Bobsborough. And he knew, too, the 
reason on which his mother’s objection 
was founded. But it might be tAvo years 
before he could possibly marry Lucy 
Morris, or it might be three. Would it 
be proper that she should be desired to 
make the deanery her home for so long 
and so indefinite a time? And when an 
engagement was for so long, could it be 
well that everybody should know it, as 
everybody would if Lucy were to take up 
her residence permanently at the deanery ? 
Some consideration, certainly, AA'as due to 
his father. 

And, moreover, it was absolutely neces- 
sary that he and Lizzie Eustace should 
understand each other as to that mutual 
pledge of truth which had passed betAveen 
them. 

In the meantime he received the folloAA'- 
ing letter from Messrs. Camperdown : 

“ 62 , New Square, Lincoln’s Inn, > 
September 15, 18 — . 5 

“ Dilvr Sir: After what passed in our 
chambers the other day, we think it best 
to let you know that Ave have been in- 
structed by the executor of the late Sir 
Florian Eustace to file a bill in Chancery 
against the widoAV, Lady Eustace, for the 
recovery of valuable diamonds. You will 
oblige us by making the necessary com- 
munication to her ladyship, and will per- 
haps tell us the names of her ladyship’s 
solicitors. 

“We are, dear sir, 

“ Your very obedient servants, 

“ Camperdown & Son. 

“ F. Greystock, Esq., M. P.” 

A few days after the receipt of this let- 
ter Frank started for Scotland. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

FRANK GREYS;rOCK’s SECOND VISIT TO POR- 
TRAY. 

O N this occavsion Frank Greystock -went 
down to Portray Castle with the in- 
tention of staying at the house during the 
very short time that he would remain in 
Scotland. He was going there solely on his 
cousin’s business, with no view to grouse- 
shooting or other pleasure, and he pur- 
posed remaining but a very short time — 
perhaps only one night. His cousin, 
moreover, had spoken of having guests 
with her, in which case there could be no 
tinge of impropriety in his doing so. And 
whether she had guests, or whether she 
had not, what difference could it really 
make? Mr. Andrew Gowran had already 
seen what there was to see, and could do 
all the evil that could be done. He could, 
if he were so minded, spread reports in 
the neighborhood, and might, perhaps, 
have the power of communicating what he 
had discovered to the Eustace faction, 
John Eustace, Mr. Camperdown, and Lord 
Fawn. That evil, if it were an evil, must 
be encountered with absolute indifference. 
So he went direct to the castle, and was 
received quietly, but very graciously, by 
his cousin Lizzie. 

There were no guests then staying at 
Portray ; but that very distinguished lady, 
Mrs. Carbuncle, with her niece. Miss Ro- 
anoke, had been there ; as had also that 
very well-known nobleman. Lord George 
de Bruce Carruthers. Lord George and 
Mrs. Carbuncle were in the habit of see- 
ing a good deal of each other, though, as 
all the world knew, there was nothing be- 
tween them but the simplest friendship. 
And Sir Griffin Tewett had also been 
there, a young baronet who was supposed 
to be enamored of that most gorgeous of 
beauties, Lucinda Roanoke. Of all these 
grand friends— friends with whom Lizzie 
had become acquainted in London — noth- 
ing further need be said here, as they 
were not at the castle when Frank arrived. 
When he came, whether by premeditated 
plan or by the chance of circumstances. 


Lizzie had no one with her at Portray ex- 
cept the faithful Macnulty. 

“ I thought to have found j'ou with all 
the world here,” said Frank, the faithful 
Macnulty being then present. 

“ Well, we have had people, but only 
for a couple of days. They are all coming 
again, but no ttill November. You hunt, 
don’t you, Frank? ” 

“ I have no time for hunting. Why do 
you ask? ” 

“ I’m going to hunt. It’s a long way 
to go — ten or twelve miles generally ; but 
almost everybody hunts here. Mrs. Car- 
buncle is coming again, and she is about 
the best lady in England after hounds ; so 
they tell me. And Lord George is coming 
again.” 

“ Who is Lord George? ” 

“You remember Lord George Carru- 
thers, whom we all knew in London? ” 

“ What, the tall man with the hollow 
ej'es and the big whiskers, whose life is a 
mystery to every one? Is he coming? ” 

“ I like him just because he isn’t a ditto 
to every man one meets. And Sir Griffin 
Tewett is coming.” 

“ Who is a ditto to everybody.” 

“Well, yes; poor Sir Griffin! The 
truth is, he is awfully smitten with Mrs. 
Carbuncle’s niece.” 

“ Don’t you go match-making, Lizzie,” 
said Frank. “ That Sir Griffin is a fool, 
we will all allow ; but it’s my belief he 
has wit enough to make himself pass off 
as a man of fortune, with very little to 
back it. He’s at law with his mother, at 
law with his sisters, and at law with his 
younger brother.” 

“If he were at law with his great- 
grandmother, it would be nothing to me, 
Frank. She has her aunt to take care of 
her, and Sir Griffin is coming with Lord 
George.” 

“You don’t mean to put up all their 
horses, Lizzie? ” 

“ Well, not all. Lord George and Sir 
Griffin are to keep theirs at Troon, or Kil- 
marnock, or somewhere. The ladies will 
bring two apiece, and I shall have two of 
my own.” 


140 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ And carriage horses and hacks ? ” 

“ The carriage horses are here, of 
course.” 

“ It will cost you a great deal of money, 
Lizzie.” 

“ That’s just what I tell her,” said 
Miss Macnulty. 

“ I’ve been living here, not spending 
one shilling, for the last two months,” 
said Lizzie, “ and all for the sake of econ- 
my ; yet people think that no woman was 
ever left so rich. Surely I can afford to 
see a few friends for one month in the 
year. If I can’t afford so much as that, I 
shall let the place and go and live abroad 
somewhere. It's too much to sujDpose 
that a woman should shut herself up here 
for six or eight months and see nobody all 
the time.” 

On that, the day of Frank’s arrival, 
not a word was said about the necklace, 
nor of Lord Fawn, nor of that mutual 
pledge which had been taken and given, 
down among the rocks. Frank, before 
dinner, went out about the place that he 
might see how things were going on, and 
observe whether the widow was being ill- 
treated and unfairly eaten up by her de- 
pendants. He was, too, a little curious 
as to a matter as to which his curiosity 
was soon relieved. He had hardly reach- 
ed the outbuildings which lay behind the 
kitchen gardens on his way to the Por- 
tray woods, before he encountered Andy 
Gowran. That faithful adherent of the 
family raised his hand to his cap and bob- 
bed his head, and then silently, and with 
renewed diligence, applied himself to the 
job which he had in hand. The gate of 
the little yard in which the cow-shed 
stood was off its hinges, and Andy was re- 
setting the post and making the fence 
tight and tidy. Frank stood a moment 
watching him, and then asked after his 
health. “ ’Deed am I nae that to boost 
about in the way of bodily heelth, Muster 
Greystock. I’ve just o’er mony things to 
tent to, to tent to my ain sell as a pru- 
dent mon ought. It’s airly an’ late wi’ 
me. Muster Greystock ; and the lumbagy 
just a’ o’er a mon isn’t the pleasantest 
fi-eend in the warld.” Frank said that he 
was sorry to hear so bad an account of 
Mr. Gowran’s health, and passed on. It 
was not for him to refer to the little scene 
in which Mr. Gowran had behaved so 
badly and had shaken his head. If the 
misbehavior had been condoned by Lady 


Eustace, the less that he said about it the 
better. Then he went on through the 
woods, and was well aware that Mr. Gow'- 
ran’s fostering care had not been abated 
by his disapproval of his mistress. The 
fences had been repaired since Frank was 
there, and stones had been laid on the 
road or track over which was to be carried 
away the underwood which it would be 
Lady Eustace’s privilege to cut during the 
coming wdnter. 

Frank was not alone for one moment 
with his cousin during that evening, but 
in the presence of Miss Macnulty all the 
circumstances of the necklace were dis- 
cussed. “ Of course it is my own,” said 
Lady Eustace, standing up, “ my own to 
do just what I please with. If they go on 
like this with me, they will almost tempt 
me to sell it for what it will fetch, just to 
prove to them that I can do so. I have 
half a mind to sell it and then send them 
the money and tell them to put it by for 
my little Flory. AN^ould not that serve 
them right, Frank? ” 

“ I don’t think I’d do that, Lizzie.” 

“ Why not? You always tell me w'hat 
not to do, but you never say what I 
ought ! ” 

“ That is because I am so wise and pru- 
dent. If you were to attempt to sell the 
diamonds they would stop you, and would 
not give you credit for the generous pur- 
pose afterward.” 

“They wouldn’t stop you if j^ou sold 
the ring you wear.” The ring had been 
given to him by Lucy after their engage- 
ment, and was the only present she had 
ever made him. It had been purchased 
out of her own earnings, and had been put 
on his finger by her own hand. Either 
from accident or craft he had not worn it 
when he had been before at Portray , and 
Lizzie had at once observed it as a thing 
she had never seen before. She knew 
well that he would not buy such a ring. 
Who had given him the ring? Frank al- 
most blushed as he looked down at the 
trinket, and Lizzie was sure that it had 
been given by that sly little creeping 
thing, Lucy. ‘ ‘ Let me look at the ring, ’ ’ 
she said. “ Nobody could stop you if you 
chose to sell this to me.” 

“ Little things are always less trouble- 
some than big things,” he said. 

“ What is the price? ” she asked. 

“ It is not in the market, Lizzie. Nor 
should your diamonds be there. You 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


141 


must be content to let them take what le- 
gal steps they may think fit, and defend 
your property. After that you can do as 
you please; but keep them safe till the 
thing is settled. If I were you I would 
have them at the bankers.” 

“ Yes ; and then when I asked for them 
be told that they couldn’t be given up to 
me because of Mr. Camperdown or the 
Lord Chancellor. And what’s the good of 
a thing locked up ? You wear your ring ; 
why shouldn’t I wear my necklace? ” 

“ I have nothing to say against it.” 

“ It isn’t that I care for such things. 
Do I, Julia? ” 

“ All ladies like them, I suppose,” said 
that stupidest and most stubborn of all 
humble friends. Miss Macnulty. 

“ I don’t like them at all, and you know 
I don’t. I hate them. They have been 
the misery of my life. Oh, how they 
have tormented me! Even when I am 
a.sleep I dream about them, and think that 
people steal them. They have never given 
me one moment’s happiness. When I 
have them on I am always fearing that 
Camperdown and son are behind me and 
are going to clutch them. And I think 
too well of myself to believe that anybody 
will care more for me because of a neck- 
lace. The only good they have ever done 
me has been to save me from a man who I 
now know never cared for me. But they 
are mine ; and therefore I choose to keep 
them. Though I am only a woman, I 
have an idea of my own rights, and will 
defend them as far as they go. If you say 
I ought not to sell them, Frank, I’ll keep 
them ; but I’ll wear them as commonly as 
3'ou do that gage amour which you carry 
on your finger. Nobody shall ever see me 
without them. I won’t go to any old 
dowager’s tea-party without them. Mr. 
John Eustace has chosen to accuse me of 
stealing them.” 

“ I don’t think John Eustace has ever 
said a word about them,” said Frank. 

“Mr. Camperdown, then; the people 
who choose to call themselves the guardi- 
ans and protectors of my boy, as if I were 
not his best guardian and protector. I’ll 
show them at any rate that I’m not 
ashamed of my booty. I don’t see why I 
should lock them up in a musty old bank. 
Why don’t you send your ring to the 
bank?” 

Frank could not but feel that she did 
it all very well. In t!ie first place, she 


was very pretty in the display of her half- 
mock indignation. Though she used some 
strong words, she used them with an air 
that carried them off and left no impres- 
sion that she had been either vulgar or vi- 
olent. And then, though the indignation 
was half mock, it was also half real, and 
her courage and spirit were attractive. 
Grej^stock had at last taught himself to 
think that Mr. Camperdown was not jus- 
tified in the claim which he made, and 
that in consequence of that unjust claim 
Lizzie Eustace had been subjected to ill- 
usage. “ Did you ever see this bone of 
contention,” she asked ; “ this fair Helen 
for which Greeks and Romans are to 
fight?” 

“ I never saw the necklace, if you mean 
that.” 

“ I’ll fetch it. You ought to see it as 
you hav€ to talk about it so often.” 

“ Can I get it? ” asked Miss Macnulty. 

“ Heaven and earth ! To suppose that 
I should ever keep them under less than 
seven keys, and that there should be any 
of the locks that anybody should be able 
to open except myself I ” 

“ And where are the seven ke3's? ” ask- 
ed Erank. 

“ Next to my heart,” said Lizzie, put- 
ting her hand on her left side. “ And 
when I sleep they are alwaj^s tied round my 
neck in a bag, and the bag never escapes 
from my grasp. And I have such a knife 
under my pillow, ready for Mr. Camper- 
down should he come to seize them ! ” 
Then she ran out of the room, and in a 
couple of minutes returned with the neck- 
lace hanging loose in her hand. It was 
part of her little play to show by her speed 
that the close locking of the jewels was a 
joke, and that the ornament, precious as 
it was, received at her hands no other 
treatment than might any indifferent fem- 
inine bauble. Nevertheless within those 
two minutes she had contrived to unlock 
the heavy iron case which alwaj'S stood 
beneath the foot of her bed. “There,” 
she said, chucking the necklace across the 
table to Frank, so that he was barely able 
to catch it. “ There is ten thousand 
pounds’ worth, as they tell me. Perhaps 
you will not believe me when I say that I 
should have the greatest satisfaction in 
the world in throwing them out among 
those blue waves j’onder, did I not think 
that Camperdown and son would fish them 
up again.” 


142 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Frank spread the necklace on the table 
and stood up to look at it, while Miss 
^Macnulty came and gazed at the jewels 
over his shoulder. “ And that is worth 
ten thousand pounds,” said he. 

“ So people say.” 

“ And your husband gave it you just as 
another man gives a trinket that costs ten 
shillings ! ” 

“Just as Lucy Morris gave you that 
ring.” 

He smiled, but took no other notice of 
the accusation. “lam so poor a man,” 
said he, “ that this string of stones, which 
you throw about the room like a' child’s 
toy, would be the making of me.” 

“ Take it and be made,” said Lizzie. 

“ It seems an awful thing to me to 
have so much value in my hands,” said 
lyiiss Macnulty, who had lifted the neck- 
lace off the table. “ It would buy an es- 
tate ; wouldn’t it?” 

“ it would buy the honorable estate of 
matrimony if it belonged to many wo- 
men,” said Lizzie, “ but it hasn’t had 
just that effect with me ; has it, Frank ? ” 

“You haven’t used it with that view 
yet.” 

“ ^Yill you have it, Frank? ” she said. 
“ Take it with all its encumbrances, and 
W'eight of cares. Take it with all the 
burden of Messrs. Camperdown’s law- 
suits upon it. You shall be as welcome to 
it as flowers were ever welcomed in May.” 

“ The encumbrances are too heavy,” 
said Frank. 

“ You prefer a little ring.” 

“ Very much.” 

“ I don’t doubt but you’re right,” said 
Lizzie. “ Who fears to rise wdll hardly 
get a fall. But there they are for you to 
look at, and there they shall remain for 
the rest of the evening.” So saying, she 
clasped the string round Miss Macnulty’s 
throat. “How do you feel, Julia, with 
an estate upon your neck? Five hundred 
acres at a pound an acre. That’s about 
it.” Miss Macnulty looked as though 
she did not like it, but she stood for a 
time bearing the precious burden, while 
Frank explained to his cousin that she 
could hardly buy land to pay her five per 
cent. They were then taken off and left 
lying on the table till Lady Eustace took 
them with her as she went to bed. “ I do 
feel so like some naughty person in the 
‘ Arabian Nights,’ ” she said, “ who has 
got some great treasure that always brings 


him into trouble ; but he can’t get rid of 
it, because some spirit has given it to him. 
At last some morning it turns to slate 
stones, and then he has to be a water- 
carrier, and is happy ever afterwards, and 
marries the king’s daughter. What sort 
of a king’s son will there be for me when 
this turns into slate stones ? Good night, 
Frank.” Then she went off with her dia- 
monds and her bed-candle. 

On the following day Frank suggested 
that there should be a business conversa- 
tion. “ That means that I am to sit si- 
lent and obedient while you lecture me,” 
she said. But she submitted, and they 
went together into the little sitting-room 
which looked out over the sea, the room 
where she kept her Shelley and her Byron, 
and practised her music and did water- 
colors, and sat, sometimes, dreaming of a 
Corsair. “And now, my gravest of 
Mentors, what must a poor ignorant fe- 
male Telemachus do, so that the world 
may not trample on her too heavily?” 
He began by telling her what had hap- 
pened between himself and Lord Fawn, 
and recommended her to write to that un- 
happy nobleman, returning any present 
that she might have received from him, 
and expressing, with some mild but intel- 
ligible sarcasm, her regret that their 
paths should have crossed each other. 
“ I’ve worse in store for his lordship than 
that,” said Lizzie. 

“ Do you mean by any personal inter- 
view?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ I think you are wrong, Lizzie.” 

“ Of course you do. Men have become 
so soft themselves, that they no longer 
dare to think even of punishing those who 
behave badly, and they expect women to 
be softer and more faineant than them- 
selves. I have been ill-used.” 

“ Certainly you have.” 

“ And I will be revenged. Look here, 
Frank ; if your view of these things is al- 
together diflerent from mine, let us drop 
the subject. Of all living human beings 
you are the one that Ls most to me now. 
Perhaps you are more than any other ever 
was. But, even for you, I cannot alter 
my nature. Even for you I would not 
alter it if I could. That man has injured 
me, and all the world knows it. I will 
have my revenge, and all the world shall 
know that. I did wrong ; I am seasible 
enough of that.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 143 


“ What wrong do you mean ? ” 

“ I told a man whom I never loved that 
I would marry him. God knows that I 
have been punished.” 

“ Perhaps, Lizzie, it is better as it is.” 

“ A great deal better. I will tell you 
now that I could never have induced my- 
self to go into church with that man as 
his bride. With a man I didn’t love I 
might have done so, but not with a man I 
despised.” 

“ You have been saved, then, from a 
greater evil.” 

“ Yes ; but not the less is his injury to 
me. It is not because he despises me that 
he rejects me ; nor is it because he thought 
that I had taken property that was not 
my own.” 

“Why then?” 

“ Because he was afraid the world 
would say that I had done so. Poor shal- 
low creature ! Bat he shall be pun- 
ished.” 

“Ido not know how you can punish 
him.” 

“Leave that to me. I have another 
thing to do much more difficult.” She 
paused, looking for a moment up into his 
face, and then turning her eyes upon the 
ground. As he said nothing, she went 
on. “I have to excuse myself to you for 
having accepted him.” 

“ I have never blamed you.” 

“ Not in words. How should you ? 
But if you have not blamed me in your 
heart, I despise you. I know you have. 
I have seen it in your eyes when you have 
counselled me either to take the poor 
creature or to leave him. Speak out, 
now, like a man. Is it not so?” 

“ I never thought you loved him.” 

“Loved him! Is there anything in 
him or about him that a woman could 
love ? Is he not a poor social stick ; a bit 
of half-dead wood, good to make a post of 
if one wants a post ? I did want a post 
so sorely then I ” 

“ I don’t see why.” 

“ You don’t? ” 

“ No, indeed. It was natural tiiat you 
should be inclined to marry again.” 

“ Natural that I should be inclined to 
marry again ! And is that all ? It is 
hard sometimes to see whether men are 
thick-witted, or hypocrites so perfect that 
they seem to be so. I cannot bring my- 
self to think you thick-witted, Frank.” 


“ Then I must be the perfect hypocrite, 
of course.” 

“ You believed I accepted Lord Fawn 
because it was natural that I should wish 
to marry again I Frank, you believed 
nothing of the kind. I accepted him in 
my anger, in my misery, in my despair, 
because I had expected you to come to me, 
and you had not come.” She had thrown 
herself now into a chair, and sat looking 
at him. “ You had told me that you 
would come, and you had staid away. 
It was you, Frank, that I wanted to punish 
then; but there was no punishment in it 
for you. When is it to be, Frank? ” 

“ When is what to be? ” he asked, in 
a low voice, all but dumbfounded. How 
was he to put an end to this conversation, 
and what was he to say to her ? 

“ Your marriage with that little wizened 
thing who gave you the ring, that prim 
morsel of feminine propriety who has been 
clever enough to make you believe that 
her morality would suffice to make you 
happy.” 

“ I will not hear Lucy Morris abused, 
Lizzie.” 

“Is that abuse? Is it abuse to say 
that she is moral and proper ? But, sir, I 
shall abuse her. I know her for what she 
is, while your eyes are sealed. She is 
wise and moral, and decorous and prim ; 
but she is a hypocrite, and has no touch 
of real heart in her composition. Not 
abuse her when her she has robbed me of 
all, all, all that I have in the world ! Go 
to her. You had better go at once. I did 
not mean to say all this, but it has been 
said, and you must leave me. I, at any 
rate, cannot play the hypocrite. I wish I 
could.” He rose and came to her, and 
attempted to take her hand, but she dung 
away from him. “ No,” she said, “ never 
again ; never, unless you will tell me that 
the promise you made me when we were 
down on the sea-shore was a true promise. 
Was that truth, sir, or was it a — lie? ” 

“ Lizzie, do not use such a word as that 
to me.” 

“ I cannot stand picking my words 
when the whole world is going round with 
me, and my very brain is on fire. What 
is it to me what my words are ? Say one 
syllable to me, and every word I utter 
again while breath is mine shall be spoken 
to do you pleasure. If j^ou cannot say it, 
it is nothing to me what you or any one 


144 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


may think of my words. You know my 
secret, and I care not who else knows it. 
At any rate, I can die.” Then she paused 
a moment, and after that stalked steadily 
out of the room. 

That afternoon Frank took a long walk 
by himself over the mountains, nearly to 
the cottage and back again ; and on his 
return was informed that Lady Eustace 
was ill, and had gone to bed. At any 
rate, she was too unwell to come down to 
dinner. He, therefore, and Miss ]\lac- 
nulty sat down to dine, and passed the 
evening together without other companion- 
ship. Frank had resolved during his walk 
that he would leave Portray the next day ; 
but had hardly resolved upon anything 
else. One thing, however, seemed certain 
to him. He was engaged to marry Lucy 
Morris, and to that engagement he must 
be true. His cousin was very charming, 
and had never looked so lovely in his eyes 
as when she had been confessing her love 
for him. And he had wondered at and 
admired her courage, her power of lan- 
guage, and her force. He could not quite 
forget how useful would be her income to 
him. And, added to this, there was 
present to him an unwholesome feeling, 
ideas absolutely at variance with those 
better ideas which had prompted him 
when he was writing Jils offer to Lucy 
Morris in his chambers, that a woman’ 
such as was his cousin Lizzie was fitter to 
be the wife of a man thrown, as he must 
be, into the world, than a dear, quiet, do- 
mestic little girl, such as Lucy Morris. 
But to Lucy Morris he was engaged, and 
therefore there was an end of it. 

The next morning he sent his love to 
liLS cousin, asking whether he should see 
her before he went. It was still neces- 
t sary that he should know what attorneys 
to employ on her behalf if the threatened 
bill were filed by Massrs. Camperdown. 
Then he suggested a firm in his note. 
Might he jDut the case into the hands of 
Mr. Townsend, who was a friend of his 
own ? There came back to him a scrap 
of paper, an old envelope, on which were 
written the names of Mowbray and Mopus : 
Mowbray and Mopus in a large scrawling 
hand, and with pencil. He put the 
scrap of paper into his pocket, feeling 
that he could not remonstrate with her at 
this moment, and was prepared to depart, 
when there came a message to him. Lady 
E-istace was still unwell, but had risen ; 


and if it were not giving him too muc!i 
trouble, would see him before he went. 
He followed the messenger to the same 
little room, looking out upon the sea, and 
then found her, dressed indeed, but with 
a while morning wrapper on, and with 
hair loose over her shoulders. Her eyes 
were red with weeping, and her face was 
pale, and thin, and woebegone. “I am 
so sorry that you are ill, Lizzie,” he said. 

“ Yes, I am ill ; sometimes very ill ; 
but what does it matter? I did not send 
for you, Frank, to speak of aught so tri- 
vial as that. I have a favor to ask.” 

“ Of course I will grant it.” 

“ It is your forgiveness for my conduct 
yesterday.” 

“Oh, Lizzie ! ” 

“ Say that you forgive me. Say it ! ” 

“ How can I forgive where there hao 
been no fault? ” 

“ There has been fault. Say that you 
forgive me.” And she stamped her foot 
as she demanded his pardon. 

“ I do forgive you,” he said. 

“And now, one farewell.” She then 
threw herself upon his breast and kissed 
him. “Now go,” she said; “go, and 
come no more to me, unless you would 
see me mad. May God Almighty blesvS 
you, and make you happy.” As she ut- 
tered this prayer she held the door in her 
hand, and there was nothing for him but 
to leave her. 


CHAPTER XXXH. 

MR. AND MRS. HITTAWAT IN SCOTLAND. 

A GREAT many people go to Scotland in 
the autumn. When you have your au- 
tumn holiday in hand to dispose of it, 
there is nothing more aristocratic that 
you can do than go to Scotland. Dukes 
are more plentiful there than in Pall Mall, 
and you will meet an earl or at least a 
lord on every mountain. Of course, if 
you merely travel about from inn to inn, 
and neither have a moor of 3^our OAvn nor 
stay with any great friend, you don't 
quite enjoy the cream of it ; but to go to 
Scotland in xYugust and stay there, per- 
haps, till the end of September, is about 
the most certain step you can take to- 
wards autumnal fashion. Switzerland 
and the T3T0I, and even Italy, are all re- 
dolent of ^Ir. Cook, and in those beauti- 
ful lands 3’ou become subject at least to 
suspicion. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


145 


By no pereon was the duty of adhering 
to the best side of society more clearly ap- 
preciated than by Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway 
of lYarwick Square. Mr. Hittaway was 
Chairman of the Board of Civil Appeals, 
and was a man who quite understood 
that there are chairmen and — chairmen. 
He could name to you three or four men 
holding responsible permanent official 
positions, quite as good as that he filled 
in regard to salary — which, as he often 
said of his own, was a mere nothing, just 
a poor two thousand pounds a year, not 
as much as a grocer would make in a de- 
cent business — but they were simply head 
clerks and nothing more. Nobody knew 
anything of them. They had no names. 
You did not meet them anywhere. Cabi- 
net ministers never heard of them ; and 
nobody out of their own offices ever con- 
sulted them. But there are others, and 
Mr. Hittaway felt greatly conscious that 
lie was one of them, who move alto- 
gether in a different sphere. One minis- 
ter of State would ask another whether 
Hittaway had been consulted on this or 
on that measure — so at least the Ilitta- 
wayites were in the habit of reporting, 
rhe names of Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway 
were constantly in the papers. They 
were invited to evening gatherings at the 
houses of both the alternate Prime Min- 
isters. They were to be seen at fashion- 
able gatherings up the river. They at- 
tended concerts at Buckingham Palace. 
Once a year they gave a dinner-party 
which was inserted in the “Morning 
Post.” On such occasions at least one 
Cabinet Minister alwa3"S graced the 
board. In fact, Mr. Hittaway, as Chair- 
man of the Board of Civil Appeals, was 
somebody; and Mrs. Hittaway, as his 
wife, and as sister to a peer, was some- 
body also. The reader will remember 
that Ml'S. Hittaway had been a Fawn be- 
fore she married. ^ \ . 

There is this drawback upon the hap- 
py condition which Mr. Hittaway had 
achieved, that it demands a certain expen- 
diture. Let nobody dream that he can 
be somebody without having to pay for 
that honor ; unless, indeed, he be a cler- 
gyman. When you go to a concert at 
Buckingham Palace j^ou pay nothing, it is 
true, for your ticket ; and a Cabinet Min- 
ister dining with you does not eat or drink 
more than your old friend Jones the attor- 
ney. But in some insidious, unforeseen 
10 


manner, in a way that can only be under- 
stood after much experience, these luxu- 
ries of fashion do make a heavy pull on a 
modest income. Mrs. Hittaway knew 
this thoroughly, having much experience, 
and did make her fight bravely. For Mr. 
Hittaway ’s income was no more than 
modest. A few thousand pounds he had 
of his own when he married, and his Clara 
had brought to him the unpretending sum 
of fifteen hundred. But, beyond that, the 
poor official salary — which was less than 
what a decent grocer would make — was 
their all. The house in Warwick Square 
they had prudently purchased on their 
marriage — when houses in W arwick 
Square were cheaper than they are now— 
and there they carried on their battle, cer- 
tainly with success. But two thousand a 
year does not go very far in Warwick 
Square, even though you sit rent free, if 
you have a family and absolutely must 
keep a carriage. It therefore resulted 
that when Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway went 
to Scotland, which they would endeavor to 
do every year, it was very important that 
they should accomplish their aristocratic 
holiday as visitors at the house of some 
aristocratic friend. So well had they 
played their cards in this respect that they 
seldom failed altogether. In one year 
they had been the guests of a great mar- 
quis quite in the north, and that had' been 
a very glorious year. To talk of Stackal- 
lan was indeed a thing of beauty. But in 
that year Mr. Hittaway had made him- 
self very useful in London. Since that 
they had been at delicious shooting lodges 
in Ross and Inverness-shire, had visited a 
millionaire at his palace amid the Argyle 
mountains, had been feted in a western 
island, had been bored by a Dundee dowa- 
ger, and put up with a Lothian laird. 
But the thing had been almost alwaj^s 
done, and the Ilittawaj^s were known as 
people that went to Scotland. He could 
handle a gun, and was clever enough nev- 
er to shoot a keeper. She could read 
aloud, could act a little, could talk or hold 
her tongue ; and let her hosts be who they 
would, and as mighty as you please, never 
caused them trouble by seeming to be out 
of their circle, and on that account requir- 
ing peculiar attention. 

On this occasion Mr. and Mrs. Hitta 
way were the guests of old Lady Pierre- 
point in Dumfries. There was nothing 
special to recommend Lady Pierrepoint 


146 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


except that she had a large house and a I 
good income, and that she liked to have 
people with her of whom everybody knew 
something. So far was Lady Pierrepoint 
from being high in the Hittaway world, 
that Mrs. Hittaway felt herself called upon 
to explain to her friends that she was 
forced to go to Dumdum House by the du- 
ties of old friendship. Dear old Lady 
Pierrepoint had been insisting on it for 
the last ten years. And there was this 
advantage, that Dumfriesshire is next to 
Ayrshire, that Dumdum was not very far 
— some twenty or thirty miles — from Por- 
tray, and that she might learn something 
about Lizzie Eustace in her country house. 

It was nearly the end of August when 
the Hittaways left London to stay an en- 
tire month with Lady Pierrepoint. Mr. 
Hittaway had very frequently explained 
his defalcation as to fashion — in that he 
was remaining in London for three weeks 
after Parliament had broken up — by the 
peculiar exigencies of the Board of Ap- 
peals in that year. To one or two very 
intimate friends Mrs. Hittaway had hint- 
ed that everything must be made to give 
way to this horrid business of Fawn’s 
marriage. “ Whatever happens, and at 
whatever cost, that must be stopped,” 
she had ventured to say to Lady Glencora 
Palliser, who, however, could hardly be 
called one of her very intimate friends. 
“I don’t see it at all,” said Lady Glencora. 

“ I think Lady Eustace is very nice. And 
why shouldn’t she marry Lord Fawn if 
she’s engaged to him? ” “ But you have 
heard of the necklace, Lady Glencora?” 
“Yes, I’ve heard of it. I wish anybody 
would come to me and try and get my dia- 
monds ! They should hear what I would 
say.” Mrs. Hittaway greatly admired 
Lady Glencora, but not the less was she 
determined to persevere. 

Had Lord Fawn been altogether candid 
and open with his family at this time, 
some trouble might have been saved ; for 
he had almost altogether resolved that let 
the consequences be what they might, he 
would not marry Lizzie Eustace. But he 
was afraid to say this even to his own sis- 
ter. He had promised to marry the wo- 
man, and he must walk very warily or the 
objurgations of the world would be too 
many for him^ “ It must depend alto- 
gether on her conduct, Clara,” he had 
said when last his sister had persecuted 
him on the subject. She was not, how- 


ever, sorry to have an opportunity of 
learning something of the lady’s doings. 
Mr. Hittaway had more than once called 
on Mr. Camperdown. “ Yes,” Mr. Cam- 
perdown had said in answer to a qu^tion 
from Lord Fawn’s brother-in-law, “ she 
would play old gooseberry with the prop- 
erty if we hadn’t some one to look after it. 
There’s a fellow named Gowran who has 
lived there all his life, and we depend very 
much upon him.” 

It is certainly true that as to many 
points of conduct women are iess nice 
than men. Mr. Hittaway would not prob- 
ably have condescended himself lo employ 
espionage, but Mrs. Hittaway was less 
scrupulous. She actually went down to 
Troon and had an interview with Mr. 
Gowran, using freely the names of Mr. 
Camperdown and Lord Fawn ; and some 
ten days afterward Mr. Gowran travelled 
as far as Dumfries and Dumdum, and had 
an interview with Mrs. Hittaway. The 
result of all this, and of further inquiries, 
will* be shown by the following letter 
from Mrs. Hittaway to her sister Amelia : 

“ Dumdum, September 9, 18 — 

“ My Dk:V.r Amelia : Here we are, and 
here we have ,to remain to the end of the 
month. Of course it suits, and all that ; 
but it is awfully dull. Richmond for this 
time of the year is a paradise to it ; and 
as for coming to Scotland every autumn, I 
am sick of it. Only what is one to do if 
one lives in London? If it wasn’t for Or- 
lando and the children I’d brazen it out, 
and let people say what they pleased. As 
for health, I’m never so well as at home, 
and I do like having my own things about 
me. Orlando has literally nothing to do 
here. There is no shooting except pheas- 
ants, and that doesn’t begin till October. 

“But I’m very glad I’ve come as to 
Frederic, and the more so, as I have 
learned the truth as to that Mr. Grej’stock. 
She, Lady Eustace, is a bad creature in 
every w'ay. She still pretends that she is 
engaged to Frederic, and tells everybody 
that the marriage is not broken off, and 
yet she has her cousin with her, making 
love to him in the most indecent way. 
People used to say in her favor that at any 
rate she never flirted. I never quite know 
what people mean when they talk of flirt- 
ing. But you may take my word for it 
that she allows her cousin to embrace her, 
and embraces him. I would not say it if 1 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


147 


could not prove it. It is horrible to think 
of it, when one remembers that she is al- 
most justified in sajdng that Frederic is 
engaged to her. 

“No doubt he was engaged to her. It 
was a great misfortune, but, thank God, 
is not yet past remedy. He has some 
foolish feeling of what he calls honor ; as 
if a man can be bound in honor to marry 
a woman who has deceived him in every 
point ! She still sticks to the diamonds, 
if she has not sold them, as I believe she 
has; and Mr. Camperdown is going to 
bring an action against her in the High 
Court of Chancery. But still Frederic 
will not absolutely declare the thing off. 
I feel, therefore, that it is my duty to let 
him know what I have learned. I should 
be the last to stir in such, a matter unless 
I was sure I could prove it. But I don’t 
quite like to write to Frederic. Will 
mamma see him, and tell him what I say ? 
Of course you wilf show this letter to 
mamma. If not, I must postpone it till I 
am in town ; but I think it would come 
better from mamma. Mamma may be 
sure that she is a bad woman. 

“ And now what do you think of your 
Mr. Greystock ? As sure as I am here he 
was seen with his arm round his cousin’s 
waist, sitting out of doors, kissing her. I 
was never taken in by that story of his 
marrying Lucy ^Morris. He is the last 
man in the world to mqrry a governess. 
He is over head and ears in debt, and if he 
marries at all, he must marry some one 
with money. I really think ihat mamma, 
and you, and all of you have been soft 
about that girl. I believe she has been a 
good governess, that is, good after mam- 
ma’s easy fashion ; and I don’t for a mo- 
ment suppose that she is doing anything 
underhand. But a governess with a lover 
never does suit, and I’m sure it won’t suit 
in this case. If I were you I would tell 
her. I think it would be the best charity. 
Whether they mean to marry I can’t tell ; 
Mr. Greystock, that is, and this woman ; 
hut they ought to mean it; that’s all. 

“ Let me know at once whether mamma 
will see Frederic, and speak to him 
openly. She is quite at liberty to use my 
name ; only nobody but mamma should 
see this letter. 

“ Love to them all. 

“ Your most affectionate sister, 

< “ Clara Hitt AWAY.” 

In writing to Amelia instead of to her 


mother, Mrs. Hittaway was sure that she 
was communicating her ideas to at least 
two persons at Fawn Court, and that 
therefore there would be discussion. Had 
she written to her mother, her mother 
might probably have held her peace, and 
done nothing. 


CHAPTER XXXHI. 

IT won’t be true. 

.Mrs. Greystock, in making her propo- 
sition respecting Lady Linlithgow, wrote 
to Lady Fawn, and by the same post 
Frank wrote to Lucy. But before those 
letters reached Fawn Court there had 
come that other dreadful letter from JMrs. 
Hittaway. The consternation caused at 
Fawn Court in respect to Mr. Greystock’s 
treachery almost robbed of its importance 
the suggestion made as to Lord Fawn. 
Could it be possible that this man, who 
had so openly and in so manly a manner 
engaged himself to Lucy Morris, should 
now be proposing to himself a marriage 
with his rich cousin? Lady Fawn did 
not believe that it was possible. Clara 
had not seen those horrid things with her 
own eyes, and other people might be liars. 
But Amelia shook her head. Amelia evi- 
dently believed that all manner of ini- 
quities were possible to man. “ You see, 
mamma, the sacrifice he was making was 
so very great!” “But he made it!” 
pleaded Lady Fawn. “ No, mamma, he 
said he would make it. Men do these 
things. It is very horrid, but I think 
they do them more now than they used to. 
It seems to me that nobody cares now 
what he does, if he’s not to be put into 
prison.” It was resolved between these 
two wise ones that nothing at the present 
should be said to Lucy or to any one of 
the family. They would wait awhile, and 
in the meantime the}" attempted, as far as 
it was possible to make the attempt with- 
out express words, to let Lucy understand 
that she might remain at Fawn Court if 
she pleased. While this was going on. 
Lord Fawn did come down once again, 
and on that occasion Lucy simply absented 
herself from the dinner table and from the 
family circle for that evening. “He’s 
coming in, and you’ve got to go to prison 
again,” Nina said to her, with a kiss. 

The matter to which Mrs. Hittaway’s 
letter more specially alluded was debated 
between the mother and daughter at great 


148 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


length. They, indeed, were less brave 
and less energetic than was the married 
daughter of the family ; but as they saw 
Lord Fawn more frequently, they knew 
better than Mrs. Hittaway the real state 
- of the case. They felt sure that he was 
already sufficiently embittered against 
Lady Eustace, and thought that therefore 
the peculiarly unpleasant task assigned to 
Lady Fawn need not be j^erformed. Lady 
Fawn had not the advantage of living so 
much in the world as her daughter, and 
was oppressed by, perhaps, a squeamish 
delicacy. “I really could not tell him 
about her sitting and — and kissing the 
man. Could I, my dear?” “I couldn’t,” 
said Amelia ; “ but Clara would.” 

“ And to tell the truth,” continued 
Lady Fawn, “ I shouldn’t care a bit about 
it if it was not for poor Lucy. What will 
become of her if that man is untrue to 
her?” 

“ Nothing on earth would make her 1)8- 
lieve it, unless it came from himself,” 
said Amelia, who really did know some- 
thing of Lucy’s character. “ Till he tells 
her, or till she knows that he’s married, 
she’ll never believe it.” 

Then, after a few days, there came those 
other letters from Bobsborough, one from 
the dean’s wife and the other from Frank. 
The matter there proposed it was necessary 
that they should discuss with Lucy, as 
the suggestion had reached Lucy as well 
as themselves. She at once came to Lady 
Fawn with her lover’s letter, and with a 
gentle merry laughing face declared that 
the thing would do, very well. “ I am 
sure 1 should get on with her, and I 
should know that it wouldn’t be for long,” 
said Lucy. 

“ The truth is, we don’t want you to 
go at all,” said Lady Fawn. 

“ Oh, but I must,” said Lucy in her 
sharp, decided tone. “I must go. I was 
bound to wait till I heard from Mr. Grey- 
stock, because it is my first duty to obey 
him. But of course I can’t stay here af- 
ter what has passed. As Nina says, it ‘is 
simply going to prison when Lord Fawn 
comes here.” 

“Nina is an impertinent little chit,” 
said Amelia. 

“She is the dearest little friend in all 
the world,” said Lucy, “ and always tells 
the exact truth. I do go to prison, and 
when he comes I feel that I ought to go 
to prison. Of course I must go away. 


What does it matter? Lady Linlithgow 
won’t be exactly like you,” and she put 
her little hand upon Lady Fawn’s fat 
arm caressingly, “ and I shan’t have you 
all to spoil me ; but I shall be simply 
waiting till he comes. Everything now 
must be no more than waiting till he 
comes.” 

If it was to be that the he would never 
come — this was very dreadful. Amelia 
clearly thought that “he” would never 
come, and Lady Fawn was apt to think 
her daughter wiser than herself. And if 
jNIr. Greystock were such as Mrs. Hitta- 
way had described him to be — if there 
were to be no such coming as that for 
which Lucy fondly waited — then there 
would be reason tenfold strong Avhy she 
should not leave Fawn Court and go to 
Lady LinlithgoAV. In such case, when 
that blow should fall, Lucy would require 
very different treatment than might be ex- 
pected for her from th*e hands of Lady Lin- 
lithgow. She would fade and fall to the 
earth like a flower with an insect at its 
root. She would be like a wounded 
branch into which no sap would run. 
With such misfortune and wretchedness 
possibly before her, Lady Fawn could not 
endure the idea that Lucy should be turn- 
ed out to encounter it all beneath the cold 
shade of Lady Linlithgow’s indifference. 
“My dear,” she said, “let bygones be 
bygones. Come down and meet Lord 
Fawn. Nobody will say anything. After 
all, you were provoked very much, and 
there has been quite enough about it.” 

This, from Lady Fawn, was almost mi- 
raculous — from Lady Fawn, to whom her 
son had ever been the highest of human 
beings ! But Lucy had told the tale to 
her lover, and her lover approved of her 
going. Perhaps there was acting upon 
her mind some feeling, of which she was 
hardly conscious, that as long as she re- 
mained at Fawn Court she would not see 
her lover. She had told him that she 
could make herself supremely happy in 
the simple knowledge that he loved her. 
But we all know how few such declara- 
tions should be taken as true. Of course 
she was longing to see him. “ If he 
would only pass by the road,” she would 
say to herself, “so that I might peep at 
him through the gate ! ’ ’ She had no 
formed idea in her own mind that she 
would be able to see him should she go to 
Lady Linlithgow, but still there would be 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


149 


the chances of her altered life ! She would 
tell Lady Linlithgow the truth, and why 
should Lady LinlithgoAV refuse her so ra- 
tional a pleasure? There was, of course, 
a reason why Frank should not come to 
Fawn Court; but the house in Bruton 
street need not be closed to him. “ I 
hardly know how to love you enough,” 
she said to Lady Fawn, “ but indeed I 
must go. I do so hope the time may come 
when you and Mr. Greystock may be 
friends. Of course it will come. Shall it 
not? ” 

“ Who can look into the future?” said 
the wise Amelia. 

“Of course if he is your husband we 
shall love him,” said the less wise Lady 
Fawn. 

“ He is to be my husband,” said Lucy, 
springing up. “What do you mean? 
Do 3'ou mean .anything? ” Lady Fawn, 
who was not at all wise, protested that 
she meant nothing. " , ' — ' 

What were they to do? On that spe- 
cial day they merely stipulated that there 
should be a day’s delay before Lady Fawn 
answered Mrs. Greystock’s letter, so that 
she might sleep upon it. The sleeping on 
it meant that further discussion which 
was to take place between Lady Fawn and 
her second daughter in her ladj^ship’s 
bedroom that night. During all this pe- 
riod the general discomfort of Fawn Court 
was increased by a certain sullenness on 
the part of Augusta, the elder daughter, 
who knew that letters had come and that 
consultations were being held, but who 
was not admitted to those consultations. 
Since the day on Avhich poor \ugusta had 
been handed over to Lizzie Eustace as her 
peculiar friend in the family, there had 
always existed a feeling that she by her 
position was debarred from sympathizing 
in the general desire to be quit of Lizzie ; 
and then, too, poor Augusta was never 
thoroughly trusted by that great guide 
of the family, Mrs. Ilittaway. “ She 
couldn’t keep it to herself if jmu’d give 
her gold to do it,” Mrs. Hittaway would 
say. Consequently Augusta was sullen 
and conscious of ill-usage. “ Have you 
fixed upon anything? ” she said to Lucy 
that evening. 

“ Not quite ; only I am to go away.” 

“ I dbn’t see why you should go away 
at all. Frederic doesn’t come here so very 
often, and when he does come he doesn’t 
say much to any one. I suppose it’s all 
Amelia’s doings.” 


“ Nobod}’^ wants me to go, only I feel 
that 1 ought. Mr. Greystock thinks it 
best.” 

“ I supi^ose he’s going to quarrel with 
us all.” 

“ No, dear. I don’t think he wants to 
quarrel with any one ; but above all he 
must not quarrel with me. Lord Fawn 
has quarrelled with him, and that’s a 
misfortune— j ust for the present.” 

“ And where are you going?” 

“ Nothing has been settled yet ; but we 
are talking of Lady Linlithgow — if she 
will take me.” 

“ Lady Linlithgow ! Oh dear ! ” 

“ Won’t it do?” 

“ They say she’s the most dreadful old 
woman in London. Lady Eustace told 
such stories about her.” 

“ Do you know, I think I shall rather 
like it.” 

But things were very different with 
Lucy the next morning. That discus- 
sion in Lady Fawn’s room was protracted 
till midnight, and then it was decided 
that just a word should be said to Lucy, 
so that, if possible, she might be induced 
to remain at Fawn Court. Lady Fawn 
was to say the word, and on the following 
morning she was closeted with Lacy. 
“ My dear,” she began, “we all Avant you 
to do us a particular favor.” As she 
said this, she held Lucy by the hand, and 
no one looking at them would have thought 
that Lucy was a governess and that Lady 
Fawn was her employer. 

“ Dear Lady Fawn, indeed it is better 
that I should go.” 

“ Stay just one month.” 

“ I couldn’t do that, because then this 
chance of a home would be gone. Of 
course we can’t wait a month before we 
let Mrs. Grej^stock know.” 

“ We must write to her, of course.” 

“ And then, you see, Mr. Greystock 
wishes it.” Lady Fawn knew that Lucy 
could be very firm, and had hardly hoped 
that anything could be done by simple 
persuasion. They had long been accus- 
tomed among themselves to call her obsti- 
nate, and knew that even in her acts of 
obedience she had a way of obeying after 
her own fashion. It was as well, there- 
fore, that the thing to be said should be 
said at once. 

“My dear Lucy, has it ever occurred 
to you that there may be a slip betAvecn 
the cup and the lip ? ” 

“ What do you mean. Lady Fawn?” 


150 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ That sometimes engagements take 
place which never become more than en- 
gagements. Look at Lord Fawn and 
Lady Eustace.” 

“ Mr. Greystockand I are not like that,” 
said Lucy, proudly. 

“ Such things are very dreadful, Lucy, 
but they do happen.” 

“ Do you mean anything — anything 
real. Lady Fawn?” 

“ I have so strong a reliance on your 
good sense, that I will tell you just what 
I do mean. A rumor has reached me 
that Mr. Greystock is — paying more at- 
tention than he ought to do to Lady Eus- 
tace.” 

“ His own cousin ! ” 

“ But people marry their cousins, 
Lucy.” 

“ To whom he has always been just like 
a brother ! I do think that is the cruel- 
lest thing. Because he sacrifices his time 
and his money and all his holidays to go 
and look after her affairs, this is to be 
said of him ! She hasn’t another human 
being to look after her, and therefore he 
is obliged to do it. Of course he has told 
me all about it. I do think. Lady Fawn, 
1 do think that is the greatest shame I 
ever heard.” 

“ But if it should be true ” 

“ It isn’t true.” 

“ But just for the sake of showing you, 
ljucy ; if it was to be true.” 

“ It won’t be true.” 

“ Surely I may speak to you as your 
friend, Lucy. You needn’t be so abrupt 
with me. Will you listen to me, Lucy? ” 

“ Of course I will listen ; only nothing 
that anybody on earth could say about 
that would make me believe a word of it.” 

“ Very well ! Now just let me go on. 
If it were to be so ” 

“ Oh-h, Lady Fawn ! ” 

“Don’t be foolish, Lucy. I will say 
what I’ve got to say. If— if— -. Let me 
see. Where was I? I mean just this : 
You had better remain here till things are 
a little more settled. Even if it be only a 
rumor — and I’m sure I don’t believe it’s 
anything more — you had better hear about 
it with us, with friends round you, than 
with a perfect stranger like Lady Lin- 
lithgow. If anything were to go wrong 
there, you wouldn’t know where to come 
for comfort. If anything were wrong 
with you here, you could come to me as 
though I were your mother. Couldn’t 
you, now ? ” 


“Indeed, indeed I could. And I will 
I always will. Lady Fawn, I love you 
and the dear darling girls better than all 
the world — except Mr. Greystock. If 
anything like that were to happen, I think 
I should creep here and ask to die in j^our 
house. But it won’t. And just now it 
will be better that I should go away.” 

It was found at last that Lucy must 
have her way, and letters were written 
both to Mrs. Greystock and to Frank, re- 
questing that the suggested overtures 
might at once be made to Lady Linlith 
gow. Lucy, in her letter to her lover, 
was more than ordinarily cheerful and 
jocose. She had a good deal to say about 
Lady Linlithgow that was really droll, 
and not a word to say indicative of the 
slightest fear in the direction of Lady 
Eustace. She spoke of poor Lizzie, and 
declared her conviction that that marriage 
never could'come off now. “ You mustn’t 
be angry when I say that I can’t break 
my heart for them, for I never did think 
that they were very much in love. As 
for Lord Fawn, of course he is my — 
ENEMY.” And she wrote the word in 
big letters. “ And as for Lizzie, she’s 
your cousin, and all that. And she’s 
ever so pretty, and all that. And she’s 
as rich as Croesus, and all that. But 1 
don’t think she’ll break her own heart. 
I would break mine ; only — only — only — . 
You will understand the rest. If it should 
come to pass, I wonder whether ‘ the 
duchess ’ would ever let a poor creature 
see a friend of hers in Bruton street.” 
Frank had once called Lady Linlithgow 
the duchess after a certain popular pic- 
ture in a certain popular book, and Lucy 
never forgot anything that Frank had 
said. 

It did come to pass. Mrs. Greystock 
at once corresponded with Lady Linlith- 
gow, and Lady Linlithgow, who was at 
Bamsgate for her autumn vacation, re- 
quested that Lucy Morris might be brought 
to see her at her house in London on the 
second of October. Lady Linlithgow’s 
autumn holiday alwa 3 ’s ended on the last 
day of September. On the second of Oc- 
tober Lady Fawn herself took Lucy up to 
Bruton street, and Lady Linlithgow ap- 
peared. ‘ ‘ Miss Morris , ’ ’ said Lady Fawn , 
“thinks it right that you should be told 
that she’s engaged to be married.” 
“Who to?” demanded the Countess. 
Lucy was as red as fire, although she had 
especially made up her mind that she 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


151 


would not blush when the communication 
was made. “I don’t know that she 
wishes me to mention the gentleman’s 
name, just at present ; but I can assure 
you that he is all that he ought to be.” 
“ I hate m3"steries,” said the Countess. 
“ If Lady Linlithgow— — ” began Lucy. 
“ Oh, it’s nothing to me,” continued the 
old woman. “ It won’t come off for six 
months, I suppose ? ” Lucy gave a mute 
assurance that there would be no such 
difficulty as that. “ And he can’t come 
here, Miss Morris.” To this Lucy said 
nothing. Perhaps she might win over 
even the Countess, and if not, she must 
bear her six months of prolonged exclu- 
sion from the light of day. And so the 
matter was settled. Lucy was to be taken 
back to Richmond, and to come again on 
the following Monday. “ I don’t like 
his parting at all, Lucy,” Lady Fawn 
said on her way home. 

“ It is better so, Lady Fawn.” 

“ I hate people going away ; but, some- 
how, you don’t feel it as we do.” 

“ You wouldn’t say that if you really 
knew what I do feel.” 

“ There was no reason why you should 
go. Frederic was getting not to care for 
it at all. What’s Nina to do now? I 
can’t get another governess after you. I 
hate all these sudden breaks up. And all 
for such a trumperj’ thing. If Frederic 
hasn’t forgotten all about it, he ought.” 

“ It hasn’t come altogether from him, 
Lady Fawn.” 

“ IIow has it come, then ? 

“ I suppose it is because of Mr. Grey- 
stock. I suppose when a girl has en- 
gaged herself to. marry a man, she must 
think more of him than of anything else.” 

“ Why couldn’t j'ou think of him at 
Fawn Court? ” 

“ Because — because things have been 
unfortunate. He isn’t j’our friend, not 
as yet. Can’t you understand. Lady 
Fawn, that, dear as you all must be to 
me, I must live in 'his friendships, and 
take his part when there is a part? ” 

“ Then I suppo.se that you mean to hate 
all of us.” Lucy could only cry at hear- 
ing this; whereupon Lady Fawn also 
burst into tears. 

On the Sunday before Lucy took her 
departure. Lord Fawn was again at Rich- 
mond. “ Of course you’ll comedown, just 
as if nothing had happened,” said Lydia. 

“ We’ll see,” .said Lucy. “ Mamma will 
be very angry if 3'ou don’t,” said Lydia. 


But Lucy had a little plot in her head, 
and her appearance at the dinner-table on 
that Sunday must depend on the manner 
in which her plot was executed. After 
church. Lord Fawn would alwa3"s hang 
about the grounds fora while before going 
into the house ; and on this morning 
Lucy also remained outside. She soon 
found her opportunity, and walked 
straight up to him, following him on the 
path. “ Lord Fawn,” she said, “ I have 
come to beg your pardon.” 

He had turned round hearing footsteps 
behind him, but still was startled and un- 
ready. “It does not matter at all,” hesaid. 

“It matters to me, because I behaved 
badly.” 

“ What I said about .Mr. Gre3'stock 
wasn’t intended to be said to you, 3’ou 
know.” 

“ Even if it was, it would make no mat- 
ter. I don’t mean to think of that now. 
I beg 3'our pardon because I said what I 
ought not to have said.” 

“ You see. Miss Morris, that as the head 
of this famil3' ” 

“ If I had said it to Juniper, I would 
have begged his pardon.” Now Juniper 
was the gardener, and Lord Fawn did not 
quite like the way in which the thing was 
put to him. The cloud came across his 
brow, and he began to fear that she would 
again insult him. “ I oughtn’t to accuse 
anybody of an untruth — not in that way ; 
and I am very sorry for what I did, and I 
beg your pardon.” Then she turned as 
though she were going back to the hou.se. 

But he stopped her. “ Miss Morris, if 
it will suit you to stay with my mother, I 
will never say a word against it.” 

“ It is quite settled that I am to go to- 
morrow, Lord Fawn. Only for that I 
would not have troubled you again.” 

Then she did turn towards the house, 
but he recalled her. “ We will shake hands, 
at any rate,” he said, “ and not part as 
enemies. ’ ’ So they shook hands, and Lucy 
came down and sat in his compan3" at the 
dinner-table. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

LADY LINLITHGOW AT HOME. 

Lucy, in her letter to her lover, had 
distinctly asked whether she might tell 
Lady Linlithgow the name of her future 
husband, but had received no reply when 
she was taken to Bruton street. The 
parting at Richmond was very painful, 


152 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


and Lady Fawn had declared herself quite 
unable to make another journey up to 
London with the ungrateful runagate. 
Though there was no diminution of affec- 
tion among the Fawns, there was a gene- 
ral feeling that Lucy was behaving badly. 
That obstinacy of hers was getting the 
better of her. Why should she have 
gone? Even Lord Fawn had expressed 
his desire that she should remain. And 
then, in the breasts of the w'ise ones, all 
faith in the Greystock engagement had 
nearly vanished. Another letter had 
come from Mrs. Hittaway, who now de- 
clared that it was already understood 
about Portray that Lady Eustace intend- 
ed to marry her cousin. This was de- 
scribed as a terrible crime on the part of 
Lizzie, though the antagonistic crime of a 
remaining desire to marry Lord Fawn 
was still imputed to her. And, of course, 
the one crime heightened the other. So 
that words from the eloquent pen of Mrs. 
Hittaway failed to make dark enough the 
blackness of poor Lizzie’s character. As 
for Mr. Greystock, he was simply a heart- 
less ma^ of the world, wishing to feather 
his nest. Mrs. Hittaway did not for a 
moment believe that he had ever dreamed 
of marrying Lucy Morris. Men always 
have three or four little excitements of 
that kind going on for the amusement of 
their leisure hours ; so, at least, said Mrs. 
Hittaway. “ The girl had better be told 
at once.” Such was her decision about 
poor Lucy. “ I can’t do more than I have 
done,” said Lady Fawn to Augusta. 
“She’ll never get over it, mamma; 
never,” said Augusta. 

Nothing more was said, and Lucy was 
sent off in the family carriage. Lydia 
and Nina were sent with her, and though 
there was some weeping on the journey, 
there was also much laughing. The char- 
acter of the “Duchess” was discussed 
very much at large, and many promises 
were made as to long letters. Lucy, in 
truth, was not unhappy. She would be 
nearer to Frank ; and then it had been 
almost promised her that she should go to 
the deanery, after a residence of six months 
with Lady Linlithgow. At the deanery 
of course she would see Frank ; and she 
also understood that a long visit to the 
deanery would be the surest prelude to 
that home of her own of which she was 
always dreaming. 

“Dear me ; sent you up in a carriage. 


has she? Why shouldn’t you have come 
by the railway ? ’ ’ 

“ Lady Fawn thought the carriage 
best. She is so very kind.” 

“ It’s what I call twaddle, you know. 
I hope you ain’t afraid of going in a cab.” 

“ Not in the least. Lady Linlithgow.” 

“ You can’t have the carriage to go 
about here. Indeed, I never have a pair 
of horses till after Christmas. I hope 
you know that I’m as poor as Job.” 

“I didn’t know.” 

“I am, then. You’ll get nothing be- 
yond wholesome food with me. And I’m 
not sure it is wholesome always. The 
butchers are scoundrels and the bakers are 
worse. What used you to do at Lady 
Fawn’s?” 

“ I still did lessons "with the two young- 
est girls.” 

“ You won’t have any lessons to do 
here unless you do ’em with me. You 
had a salary there? ” 

“ Oh yes.” 

“ Fifty pounds a j^ear, I supjx)se.” 

“ I had eighty.” 

‘ ‘ Had you , indeed . Eighty pounds , and 
a coach to ride in ! ” 

“ I had a great deal more than that. 
Lady Linlithgow.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“I had downright love and affection. 
They were just so many dear friends. I 
don’t suppose any governess was ever so 
treated before. It was just like being at 
home. The more I laughed the better 
every one liked it.” 

“ You won’t find anything to laugh at 
here ; at least I don’t. If you want to 
laugh, you can laugh up stairs or down in 
the parlor.” 

“I can do without laughing for a 
while.” 

“ That’s lucky. Miss Morris. If they 
were all so good to you , what*made you 
come array? They sent you away, didn’t 
they?” 

“ Well, I don’t know that I can explain 
it just all. There were a great many 
things together. No; they didn’t send 
me away. I came away because it suit- 
ed.” 

“ It was something to do with your 
having a lover, I suppose.” To this Lucy 
thought it best to make no answer, and 
the conversation for a while was dropped. 

Lucy had arrived at about half-past 
three, and Lady Linlithgow was then sit- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


153 


ting in the drawing-room. After the first 
series of questions and answers Lucy was 
allowed to go up to her room, and on her 
return to the drawing-room found the 
Countess still sitting upright in her chair. 
She wms now busy with accounts, and at 
first took no notice of Lucy’s return. What 
were to be the companion’s duties? What 
tasks in the house were to be assigned to 
her? What hours were to be her own; 
and w'hat was to be done in those of which 
the Countess would demand the use ? Up 
to the present moment nothing had been 
said of all this. She had simply been told 
that she was to be Lady Linlithgow’s 
companion, without salary, indeed, but 
receiving shelter, guardianship, and 
bread and meat in return for her services. 
She took up a book from the table and sat 
with it for ten minutes. It was Tapper’s 
great poem, and she attempted to read it. 
Lady Linlithgow sat totting up her fig- 
ures, but said nothing. She had not 
spoken a word since Lucy’s return to the 
room ; and as the great poem did not at 
first fascinate the new companion — whose 
mind not unnaturally was somewhat dis- 
turbed — Lucy ventured upon a question. 
“Is there anything I can do for you, Lady 
Linlithgow? ” 

“ Do you know about figures? ” 

“ Oh, yes. I. consider myself quite a 
ready-reckoner.” 

“ Can you make two and two come to 
five on one side of the sheet and only come 
to three on the other? ” 

“ I’m afraid I can’t do that and prove 
it afterward.” 

“Then you ain’t w'orth anything to 
me.” Having so declared. Lady Linlith- 
gow went on with her accounts and Lucy 
relapsed into her great poem. 

“No, my dear,” said the Countess, 
when she had completed her work, 
“ there isn’t anything for you to do. I 
hope you haven’t come here with that 
mistaken idea. There won’t be any sort 
of w^ork of any kind expected from you. 
I poke my own fires and I carve my own 
bit of mutton. And I haven’t got a nasty 
little dog to be wmshed. And I don’t care 
twopence about worsted work. I have a 
maid to darn my stockings, and because 
she has to work I pay her wages. I don’t 
like being alone, so I get you to come and 
live with me. I breakfast at nine, and if 
you don’t manage to be down by that time 
[ .shall he cross.” 


“ I am always up long before that.” 

“ There's lunch at two, just bread and 
butter and cheese, and perhaps a bit of 
cold meat. There’s dinner at seven ; and 
very bad it is, because they don’t have 
any good meat in London. Down in Fife- 
shire the meat’s a deal better than it is 
here, only I never go there now. At half- 
past ten I go to bed. It’s a pity you’re 
so young, because I don’t know what you’ll 
do about going out. Perhaps, as you ain’t 
pretty, it won’t signify.” 

“ Not at all — I should think,” said 
Lucy. 

“ Perhaps you consider yourself pretty. 
It’s all altered now since I was young. 
Girls make monsters of themselves, and 
I’m told the men like it ; going about 
wdth unclean, frow'sy structures on their 
heads, enough to make a dog sick. They 
used to be clean and sweet and nice, what 
one would like to kiss. How a man can 
like to kiss a face with a dirty horse’s tail 
all whizling about it, is what I can’t at all 
understand. I don’t think they do like it, 
but they have to do it.” 

“I haven’t even a pony’s tail,” said 
Lucy. 

“ They do like to kiss you, I dare say.” 

“ No, they don’t,” ejaculated Lucy, 
not knowing what answer to make. 

“I haven’t hardly looked at you, but 
you didn’t seem to me to be a beauty.” 

“ You are quite right about that. Lady 
LinlithgOAV.’’ 

“ I hate beauties. My niece, Lizzie 
Eustace, is a beauty ; and I think that, of 
all heartless creatures in the w^orld, she is 
the most heartless.” 

“ I know Lady Eustace very well.” 

“ Of course you do. She was a Grey- 
stock, and you know the Greystocks. 
And she was down staying with old Lady 
Fawn at Kichmond. I should think old 
Lady Fawn had a time with her ; hadn’t 
she? ” 

“ It didn’t go off very well.” 

“ Lizzie would be too much for the 
Fawns, I should think. She was too much 
for me, I know. She’s about as bad as 
anybody ever w'as. She’s false, dishonest, 
heartless, cruel, irreligious, ungrateful, 
mean, ignorant, greedy, and vile.” 

“ Good gracious. Lady Linlithgow ! ” 

“ She’s all that,' and a great deal worse. 
But she is handsome. I don’t know that 
I ever saw a prettier woman. 1 general- 
ly go out in a cab at three o’clock, but I 


154 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


shan’t want you to go with me. I don’t 
know what you can do. Macnulty used 
to walk round Grosvenor Square and 
think that people mistook her for a lady 
of quality. You mustn’t go and walk 
round Grosvenor Square by yourself, you 
know. Not that I care.” 

“I’m not a bit afraid of anybody,” 
said Lucy. 

“ Now you know all about it. There 
isn’t anything for you to do. There are 
;Miss Edgeworth’s novels down stairs, 
and ‘ Pride and Prejudice ’ in my bedroom. 
I don’t subscribe to Mudie’s, because when 
I asked for ‘ Adam Bede,’ they always 
sent me the ‘Bandit-Chief.’ Perhaps 
you can borrow books from your friends 
at Richmond. I dare say Mrs. Grey- 
stock has told you that I’m very cross.” 

“I haven’t seen Mrs. Greystock for 
ever so long.” 

“ Then Lady Fawn has told you — or 
somebody. When the wind is east, or 
northeast, or even north, I am cross, for 
I have the lumbago. It’s all very well 
talking about being good-humored. You 
can’t be good-humored with the lumbago. 
And I have the gout sometimes in my 
knee. I’m cross enough then, and so 
you’d be. And, among ’em all, I don’t 
get much above half what I ought to 
have out of my jointure. That makes me 
very cross. My teeth are bad, and I like 
to have the meat tender. But it’s always 
tough, and that makes me cross. And 
when people go against the grain with 
me, as Lizzie Eustace alwaj^s did, then 
I’m very cross.” 

“ I hope you won’t be very bad with 
me,” said Lucy. 

“ I don’t bite, if you mean that,” said 
her ladyship. . 

“ I’d sooner be bitten than barked at — 
sometimes,” said Lucy. 

“Humph!” said the old woman, and 
then she went back to her accounts. 

Lucy had a few books of her own, and she 
determined to ask Frank to send her some. 
Books are cheap things, and she would 
not mind asking him for magazines, and 
numbers, and perhaps for the loan of a 
few volumes. In the mean time she did 
read Tapper’s poem, and “Pride and 
Prejudice,” and one of Miss Edgeworth’s 
novels — probably for the third time. 
During the first week in Bruton street 
she would have been comfortable enough, 
only that she had not received a line from 


Frank. That Frank was not specially 
good at writing letters she had already 
taught herself to understand. She was 
inclined to believe that but few men of 
business do write letters willingly, but 
that, of all men, lawyers are the least 
willing to do so. How reasonable it was 
that a man who had to perform a great 
part of his daily work with a pen in his 
hand, should loathe a pen when not at 
work. To her the writing of letters was 
perhaps the most delightful occupation 
of her life, and the writing of letters to 
her lover was a foretaste of heaven ; but 
then men, as she knew, are very dijfferent 
from Avomen. And she knew this also, 
that of all her immediate duties, no duty 
could be clearer than that of abstaining 
from all jealousy, petulance, and impa- 
tient expectation of little attentions. He 
loved her, and had told her so. and had 
promised her that she should be his wife, 
and that ought to be enough for her. 
She was longing for a letter, because she 
was very anxious to know whether she 
might mention his name to Lady Linlith- 
gow ; but she would abstain from any 
idea of blaming him because the letter did 
not come. 

On various occasions the Countess 
showed some little curiosity about the 
lover ; and at last, after about ten days, 
when she found herself beginning to be 
intimate with her new companion, she 
put the question point-blank. ‘‘ I hate 
mysteries,” she said. “ Who is the 
young man you are to marry? ” 

“ He is a gentleman I’ve known a long 
time.” 

“ That’s no answer.” 

“ I don’t want to tell his name quite 
yet. Lady Linlithgow.” 

“ Why shouldn’t you tell his name, un- 
less it’s something improper? Is he a 
gentleman? ” 

“ Yes, he is a gentleman.” 

“ And how old? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know; perhaps thirty- 
two.” 

“ And has he any money? ’ 

“ lie has his profession.” 

“ I don’t like these kind of secrets. 
Miss Morris. If you won’t say who he 
is, what was the good of telling me that 
you were engaged at all ? Hoav is a per- 
son to believe it?” 

“ I don’t Avant you to believe it.” 

“ Highty, tighty I ” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


155 


“ I told you my own part of the affair, 
because I thought you ought to know it 
as I was coming into your house. But I 
don’t see that you ought to know his part 
of it. As for not believing, I suppose 
you believed Lady Fawn? ” 

“Not a bit better than I believe you. 
Feople don’t always tell truth because 
they have titles, nor yet because they’ve 
grown old. He don’t live in London, 
do<^s he?” 

“ He generally lives in London. He is 
a barrister.” 

Oh, oh! a barrister is he? They’re 
always making a heap of money, or else 
none at all. Which is it with him ? ” 

“ He makes something.” 

“ As much as you could put in your 
ej’e and see none the worse.” To see the 
old lady, as she made this suggestion, 
turn sharp round upon Lucy, was as good 
as a play. “My sister’s nephew, the 
dean’s son, is one of the best of the rising 
ones, I’m told.” Lucy blushed up to her 
hair, but the dowager’s back was turned, 
and she did not see the blushes. “ But 
he’s in Parliament, and they tell me he 
spends hLs money faster than he makes 
it. I suppose you know him? ” 

“Yes ; I knew him at Bobsborough.” 

“It’s my belief that after all this fuss 
about Lord Fawn, he’ll marry his cousin, 
Lizzie Eustace. If he’s a lawyer, and as 
sharp as they say, I suppose he could 
manage her. I wish he would.” 

“ And she so bad as you say she is ! ” 

“ She’ll be sure to get somebody, and 
why shouldn’t he have her money as well 
as another? There never was a Grey- 
stock who didn’t want money. That’s 
what it will come to ; you’ll see.” 

“ Never,” said Lucy decidedly. 

“ And why not?” 

“ What I mean is that Mr. Greystock 
is, at least I should think so from what I 
hear, the very last man in the world to 
marry for money . ” 

“What do you know of what a man 
would do? ” 


“ It would be a very mean thing ; par- 
ticularly if he does not love her.” 

“ Bother ! ” said the Countess. “ They 
were very near it in town last year before 
Lord Fawn came up at all. I knew as 
much as that. And it’s what they’ll come 
to before they’ve done.” 

“ They’ll never come to it,” said Lucy. 

Then a sudden light flashed across the 
astute mind of the Countess. She turned 
round in her chair, and sat for a while 
silent, looking at Lucy. Then she slowly 
asked another question. “ He isn’t your 
young man,, is he? ” To this Lucy made 
no reply. “ So that’s it, is it?” said the 
dowager. “ You’ve done me the honor 
of making my house your home till my 
own sister’s nephew shall be ready to 
marry you?” 

“ And why not? ” asked Lucy, rather 
roughly. 

“ And Dame Grej'stock, from Bobs- 
borough, has sent you here to keep you 
out of her son’s way. I see it all. And 
that old frump at Richmond has passed 
you over to me because she did not choose 
to have such goings on under her own 
eye.” 

“ There have been no goings on,” said 
Lucy. 

“And he’s to come here, I suppose, 
when my back’s turned? ” 

“ He is not thinking of coming here. I 
don’t know what you mean. Nobody has 
done anything wrong to you. I don’t 
know why you say such cruel things.” 

“He can’t afford to marry you, you 
know.” 

“ I don’t know anything about it. Per- 
haps we must wait ever so long ; five years. 
That’s nobody’s business but my own.” 

“ I found it all out, didn’t I? ” 

“ Yes, you found it out.” 

“ I’m thinking of that sly old Dame 
Greystock at Bobsborough sending you 
here.” Neither on that nor on the two 
following days did Lady Linlithgow say a 
word further to Lucy about her engage 
ment. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

TOO BAD FOR SYMPATHY. 

IIEN Frank Greystock left Bobsbo- 
rough to go to Scotland, he had not 
said that he would return, nor had he at 
that time made up his mind whether he 
would do so or no. He had promised to go 
and shoot in Norfolk, and had half underta- 
ken to be up in London with Ilerriot, work- 
ing. Though it was holiday-time, still 
there Avas plenty of AA^ork for him to do, va- 
rious heaA’y cases to get up and papers to be 
read, if only he could settle himself down 
to the doing of it. But the scenes doAAm 
in Scotland had been of a nature to make 
him unfit for steady labor. How was he 
to sail his bark through the rocks by 
Avhich his present voyage Avas rendered so 
dangerous? Of course, to the reader, the 
Avay to do so seems to be clear enough. 
To Avork hard at his profession, to ex- 
plain to his cousin that she had altogether 
mistaken his feelings, and to be true to 
Lucy Morris, Avas so manifestly his duty, 
that to no reader will it appear possible 
that to any gentleman there could be a 
doubt. Instead of the existence of a diffi- 
culty, there was a flood of light upon his 
path, so the reader will think ; a flood so 
clear that not to see his way was impossi- 
ble. A man carried aAvay by abnormal 
appetites, and vrickedness, and the devil, 
may of course commit murder, or forge 
bills, or become a fraudulent director of a 
bankrupt company. And so may a man 
be untrue to his troth , and leave true love 
in pursuit of tinsel, and beauty, and false 
words, and a large income. But why 
should one tell the story of creatures so 
base ? One does not willingly grovel in 
gutters, or breathe fetid atmospheres, or 
live upon garbage. If we are to deal with 
heroes and heroines, let us, at any rate, 
have heroes and heroines who are above 
such meanness as falsehood in love. This 
Frank Greystock must be little better than 
a mean villain if he allows himself to be 
turned from his allegiance to Lucy ^Morris 
for an hour by the seductions and money 
of such a one as Lizzie Eustace. 

W e know the dear old rhyme : 


It is good to be meiTy and Avise, 

It is good to be honest and true; 

It is good to be oflf AAdth the old love 
Before you are on with the new. 

There Avas never better truth spoken 
than this, and if all men and Avomen could 
folloAV the advice here given, there would 
be very little sorrow in the world. But 
men and Avomen do not follow it. They 
are no more able to do so than they are to 
use a spear, the staff of which is like a 
weaver’s beam, or to fight with the sword 
Excalibar. The more they exercise their 
arms, the nearer will they get to using the 
giant’s weapon, or even ‘the weapon that 
is divine. But as things are at present, 
their limbs are limp and their muscles 
soft, and overfeeding impedes their breath. 
They attempt to be merry without being 
wise, and have themes about truth and 
honesty with which they desire to shackle 
others, thinking that freedom from such 
trammels may be good for themselves. 
And in that matter of love, though loAe 
is very potent, treachery will sometimes 
seem to be prudence, and a hankering af- 
ter new delights Avill often interfere Avith 
real devotion. 

It is very easy to depict a hero, a man 
absolutely stainless, perfect as an Arthur, 
a man honest in all his dealings, equal to 
all trials, true in all his speech, indifl'er- 
ent to his own prosperity, struggling for 
the general good, and, above all, faithful 
in love. At any rate, it is as easy to do 
that as to tell of the man who is one hour 
good and the next bad, Avho aspires great- 
ly but fails in practice, Avho sees the high- 
er but too often folloAA's the loAver course. 
There arose at one time a school of art 
which delighted to paint the human face 
as perfect in beauty ; and from that time 
to this we are discontented unless every 
woman is drawn for us*as a Venus, or at 
least a Madonna. I do not know that Ave 
have gained much by this untrue portrait- 
ure, either in beauty or in art. There 
may be made for us a pretty thing to look 
at, no doubt ; but we knoAV that that pret- 
ty thing is not really visaged as the mis- 
tress whom Ave serve, and whose linea- 
ments we desire to perpetuate on^the can- 



THE EUSTACE DIAJMONDS. 


157 


vas. The winds of heaven, or the flesh- 
pots of Egj-pt, or the midnight gas, pas- 
sions, pains, and perhaps rouge and pow- 
der, have made her something difierent. 
But still there is the fire of her eye and 
the eager, eloquence of her mouth, and 
something too, perhaps, left of the de- 
parting innocence of youth, which the 
painter might give us without the Venus 
or the Madonna touches. But the painter 
does not dare do it. Indeed, he has paint- 
ed so long after the other fashion that he 
would hate the canvas before him were he 
to give way to the rouge-begotten rough- 
ness or to the flesh-pots, or even to the 
winds. x\nd how, my lord, would you, 
who are giving hundreds, more than hun- 
dreds, for this portrait of your dear one, 
like to see it in print from the art critic of 
the day, that she is a brazen-faced hoyden 
who seems to have had a glass of wine too 
much, or to have been making hay? 

And so also has the reading world 
taught itself to like best the characters of 
all but divine men and women. Let the 
man who paints with pen and ink give 
the ga.s-light and the flesh-pots, the pas- 
sions and pains, the prurient prudence 
and the rouge-pots and pounce-boxes of 
the world as it is, and he will be told that 
no one can care a straw for his creations. 
With whom are we to sympathize ? says 
the reader, who not unnaturally imagines 
that a hero should be heroic. Oh, thou, 
my reader, whose sympathies are in truth 
the great and only aim of my work, when 
you have called the dearest of your friends 
round you to your hospitable table, how 
maliy heroes are there sitting at the 
board ? Your bosom friend, even if he be 
a knight without fear, is he a knight with- 
out reproach? The Ivanhoe that you 
know, did he not press Rebecca’s hand? 
Your Lord Evandale, did he not bring his 
coronet into play when he strove to win 
his Edith Bellenden? Was your Tresil- 
ian still true and still forbearing when 
truth and forbearance could avail him 
nothing? And those sweet girls whom 
you know, do they never doubt between 
the poor man they think they love and the 
rich man whose riches they know they 
covet ? 

Go into the market, either to buy or 
sell, and name the thing you desire to 
part with or to get, as it is, and the mar- 
ket is closed against you. Middling oats 
are the sweepings of the granaries. A 


useful horse is a jade gone at every point. 
Good sound port is sloe juice. No assur- 
ance short of A 1 betokens even a pre- 
tence to merit. And yet in real life we 
are content with oats that are really mid- 
dling, are very glad to have a useful 
horse, and know that if we drink port at 
all we must drink some that is neither 
good nor sound. In those delineations of 
life and character which we call novels, a 
similarly superlative vein is desired. Our 
own friends around us are not always mer- 
ry and wise', nor, alas, always honest and 
true. They are often cross and foolish, 
and sometimes treacherous and false. 
They are so, and we are angry. Then we 
forgive them, not without a consciousness 
of imperfection on our own part. And 
we know, or at least believe, that though 
they be sometimes treacherous and false, 
there is a balance of good. We cannot 
have heroes to dine with us. There are 
none. And were these heroes to be had, 
we should not like them. But neither are 
our friends villains, whose every aspira- 
tion is for evil, and whose every moment 
is a struggle for some achievement worthy 
of the devil. 

The persons whom you cannot care for 
in a novel because they are so bad, are the 
very same that you so dearly love in your 
life because they are so good. To make 
them and ourselves somewhat better, not 
by one spring heavenward to perfection, 
because we cannot so use our legs, but by 
slow climbing, is, we may presume, the 
object of all teachers, leaders, legislators, 
spiritual pastors, and masters. He who 
writes tales such as this probably also 
has, very humbly, some such object dis- 
tantly before him. xl picture of surpass- 
ing godlike nobleness, a picture of a King 
Arthur among men, may perhaps do much. 
But such pictures cannot do all. When 
such a picture is painted, as intending to 
show what a man should be, it is true. If 
painted to show what men are, it is false. 
The true picture of life as it is, if it could 
be adequately painted, would show men 
what they are and how they might rise, 
not indeed to perfection, but one step 
first, and then another, on the ladder. 

Our hero, Frank Greystock, falling la- 
mentably short in his heroism, was not in 
a happy state of mind when he reached 
Bobsborough. It may be that he return- 
ed to his own borough and to his mother’s 
arms because he felt that were he to de- 


158 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONHS. 


termine to be false to Lucy he would there 
receive sympathy in his treachery. His 
mother would, at any rate, think that it 
was well, and his father would acknowl- 
edge that the fault committed was in the 
original engagement with poor Lucy, and 
not in the treachery. He had written 
that letter to her in his chambers one 
night in a fit of ecstasy ; and could it be 
right that the ruin of a whole life should 
be the consequence? 

It can hardly be too strongly asserted 
that Lizzie Greystock did not appear to 
Frank as she has been made to appear to 
the reader. In all this affair of the neck- 
lace he was beginning to believe that she 
was really an ill-used woman ; and as to 
other traits in Lizzie’s character, traits 
which he had seen, and which were not 
of a nature to attract, it must be remem- 
bered that beauty reclining in a man’s 
arms does go far toward washing white 
the lovely blackamoor. Lady Linlithgow, 
upon whom Lizzie’s beauty could have no 
effect of that kind, had nevertheless de- 
clared her to be very beautiful. And this 
loveliness was of a nature that was alto- 
gether pleasing, if once the beholder of it 
could get over the idea of falseness which 
certainly Lizzie’s eye was apt to convey to 
the beholder. There was no unclean 
horse’s tail. There was no get-up of 
flounces, and padding, and paint, and 
liair, with a dorsal excrescence appended, 
with the object surely of showing in tri- 
umph how much absurd ugliness women 
can force men to endure. She was lithe, 
and active, and bright, and was at this 
moment of her life at her best. Her 
growing charms had as yet hardly reached 
the limits of full feminine loveliness, which, 
when reached , have been surpassed. Lux- 
uriant beauty had with her not as yet be- 
come comeliness ; nor had age or the good 
things of the world added a pound to the 
fairy lightness of her footstep. All this 
had been tendered to Frank, and with it 
that worldly wealth which was so abso- 
lutely necessary to his career. For though 
(ireystock would not have said to any man 
or woman that nature had intended him 
to be a spender of much money and a con- 
sumer of many good things, he did un- 
doubtedly so think of himself. He was a 
Greystock, and to what miseries would he 
not reduce his Lucy if, burdened by such 
propensities, he were to marry her and 
then become an aristocratic pauper ! 


The offer of herself by a woman to a 
man is, to us all, a thing so distasteful 
that we at once declare that the woman 
must be abominable. There shall be no 
whitewashing of Lizzie Eustace. She was 
abominable. But the man to whom tlie 
offer is made hardly sees the thing in the 
same light. He is disposed to believe 
that, in his peculiar case, there are cir- 
cumstances by which the woman is, if not 
justified, at least excused. Frank did put 
faith in his cousin’s love for himself. He 
did credit her when she told him that she 
had accepted Lord Fawn’s offer in pique, 
because he had not come to her when he 
had promised that he would come. It 
did seem natural to him that she should 
have desired to adhere to her engagement 
when he would not advise her to depart 
from it. And then her jealousy about 
Lucy’s ring, and her abuse of Lucy, were 
proofs to him of her love. Unless she 
loved him, why should she care to marry 
him? What was his position that she 
should desire to share it, unless she so 
desired because he was dearer to her than 
aught beside? lie had not eyes clear 
enough to perceive that his cousin was a 
witch whistling for a wind, and ready to 
take the first blast that would carry her 
and her broomstick somewhere into the 
sky. And then, in that matter of the 
offer, which in ordinary circumstances 
certainly should not have come from her 
to him, did not the fact of her wealth and 
of his comparative poverty cleanse her 
from such stain as would, in usual cir- 
cumstances, attach to a woman who is so 
forward ? He had not acceded to her p^*o- 
position. He had not denied his engage- 
ment to Lucy. He had left her presence 
without a word of encouragement, be- 
cause of that engagement. But he be- 
lieved that Lizzie was sincere. He be- 
lieved, now, that she was genuine ; though 
he had previously been all but sure that 
falsehood and artifice were second nature 
to her. 

At Bobsborough he met liLs constitu- 
ents, and made them the normal autumn 
speech. The men of Bobsborough were 
well pleased and gave him a vote of confi- 
dence. As none but those of his own 
party attended the meeting-, it was not 
wonderful that the vote was unanimous. 
His father, mother, and sister all heard 
his speech, and there was a strong family 
feeling that Frank was born to set the 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


159 


Greystocks once more upon their legs. 
When a man can say what he likes with 
the certainty that every word will be re- 
ported, and can speak to those around 
him as one manifestly their superior, he 
always looms large. When the Conserva- 
tives should return to their propei place 
at the head of affairs, there could be no 
doubt that Frank Greystock would be 
made Solicitor-General. There were not 
wanting even ardent admirers, who con- 
ceived that, with such claims and such 
talents as his, the ordinary steps in polit- 
ical promotion would not be needed, and 
that he would become Attorney-General 
at once. All men began to say all good 
things to the dean, and to Mrs. Greystock 
it seemed that the woolsack, or at least 
the Queen’s Bench with a peerage, was 
hardly an uncertainty. But then, there 
must be no marriage with a penniless 
governess. If he would only marry his 
cousin, one might say that the woolsack 
was won. 

Then came Lucy’s letter ; the prgtty, 
dear, joking letter about the “ duchess ” 
and broken hearts. “ I would break my 
heart, only — only — only — ” Yes, he knew 
very well what she meant. I shall never be 
called upon to break my heart, because 
you are not a false scoundrel. If you 
were a false scoundrel — instead of being, 
as you are, a pearl among men — then I 
should break my heart. That was what 
Lucy meant. She could not have been 
much clearer, and he understood it per- 
fectly. It is very nice to w'alk about 
one’s own borough and be voted unani- 
mously worthy of confidence, and be a 
great man ; but if you are a scoun- 
drel, and not used to being a scoundrel, 
black care is apt to sit very close be- 
hind you as you go caracoling along the 
streets. 

Lucy’s letter required an answer, and 
how should he answer it? He certainly 
did not W'ish her to tell Lady Linlithgow 
of her engagement, but Lucy clearly 
wished to be allowed to tell, and on what 
ground could he enjoin her to be silent ? 
He knew, or he thought he- knew, that 
till he answered the letter, she would not 
tell his secret ; and therefore from day 
to day he put off the answer. A man 
does not write a love-letter usually when 
he is in doubt himself whether he does 
or does not mean to be a scoundrel. 

Then there came a letter to “ Dame ” 


Greystock, from Lady Linlithgow, which 
filled them all with amazement. 

“ My dear Madam,” began the letter : 

“ Seeing that your son is engaged to 
marry Miss Morris — at least she says so — 
you ought not to have sent her here with- 
out telling me all about it. She saj's you 
know of the match, and she says that I 
can write to you if I please. Of coui*se I 
can do that without her leave. But it 
seems to me that if you know all about it, 
and ajDprove the marriage, your house and 
not mine would be the proper place for 
her. 

“ I’m told that Mr. Greystock is a great 
man. Any lady being with me as my 
companion can’t be a great woman. But 
perhaps you wanted to break it off ; else 
you would have told me. She shall stay 
here six months, but then .she must go. 

“ Yours truly, 

“Susanna Linlitugoav.” 

It was considered absolutely necessary 
that this letter should be shown to Frank. 
“You see,” said his mother, “she told 
the old lady at once.” 

“I don’t see why she shouldn’t.’ 
Nevertheless Frank was annoyed. Hav- 
ing asked for permission, Lucy should at 
least have waited for a reply. 

“ Well, I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Grey- 
stock. “It is generally considered that 
young ladies are more reticent about such 
things. She has blurted it out and boast- 
ed about it at once.” 

“ I thought girls always told of their 
engagements,” said Frank, “ and I can’t 
for the life of me see that there was any 
boasting in it.” Then he was silent for a 
moment. “ The truth is, we are all of us 
treating Lucy very badly.” 

“ I cannot say that I see it,” said Ills 
mother. 

“We ought to have had her here.” 

“ For how long, Frank? ” 

‘ ‘ For a3 long as a home was needed by 
her.” 

“Had you demanded it, Frank, she 
should have come, of course. But neither 
I nor 3 "our father could have had pleas- 
ure in receiving her as your future wdfe. 
You yourself say that it cannot be for 
two years at least.” 

“ I said one year.” 

“I think, Frank, you said tAvo. And 
we all knoAV that such a marriage Avould 


100 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


be ruinous to you . IIow could we make 

her welcome? Can you see your way to 

haYins: a house for her to live in within 
^ / 
twelvemonths?” 

“Why not a house? I could have a 
house to-morrow.” 

“ Such a house as would suit you in 
your position? And, Frank, would it be 
a kindness to marry her and then let her 
find that you were in debt? ” 

“ I don’t believe she’d care if she had 
nothing but a crust to eat.” 

“She ought to care, Frank.” 

“ I think,” said the dean to his son on 
the next day, “that in our class of life 
an imprudent marriage is the one thing 
tha{ should be avoided. My marriage 
has been very happy, God knows ; but I 
have always been a poor man, and feel it 
now when I am quite unable to help you. 
And yet your mother had some fortune. 
Nobody, I think, cares less for wealth 
than I do. I am content almost with 
nothing.” — The nothing with which the 
dean had hitherto been contented had al- 
ways included every comfort of life, a 
well-kept table, good wine, new books, 
and canonical habiliments with the gloss 
still on ; but as the Bobsborough trades- 
men had, through the agency of Mrs. 
Greystock, alwaj^s supplied him with 
tliese things as though they came from 
the clouds, he really did believe that he 
had never asked for anything. — “I am 
content almost with nothing. But I do 
feel that marriage cannot be adopted as 
the ordinary form of life by men in our 
class as it can be by the rich or by the 
poor. You, for instance, are called upon 
to live with the rich, but are not 
rich. That can only be done by wary 
walking, and is hardly consistent with a 
wife and children.” 

“ But men inmy position do marry, sir.” 

“ After a certain age ; or else they 
marry ladies with money. You see, 
Frank, there are not many men who go 
into Parliament with means so moderate 
as yours ; and they who do, perhaps have 
stricter ideas of economy.” The dean did 
not say a word about Lucy Morris, and 
dealt entirely with generalities. 

In compliance with her son’s advice — 
or almost command — Mrs. Greystock did 
not answer Lady Linlithgow’s letter. He 
was going back to London, and would 
give personally, or by letter written 
tk-ere, what answer might be necessary. 


“You will then see Miss Morris?” 
asked his mother. 

“ I shall certainly see Lucy. Some- 
thing must be settled.” There was a tone 
in his voice as he said this which gave 
some comfort to his mother. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 
lizzie’s guests. 

True to their words, at the end of Oc- 
tober, INIrs. Carbuncle and Miss Roanoke, 
and Lord George de Bruce Carruthers 
and Sir Griffin Tewett, arrived at Portray 
Castle. x\nd for a couple of days there 
was a visitor whom Lizzie was very glad 
to welcome, but of whose good nature on 
the occasion ^Mr. Camperdown thought 
very ill indeed. This was John Eustace. 
His sister-in-law wrote to him in very 
pressing language ; and as — so he said to 
Mr. Camperdown — he did not wish to 
seem to quarrel with his brother's widow 
as Iqpg as such seeming might be avoided, 
he accepted the invitation. If there was 
to be a lawsuit about the diamonds, that 
must be Mr. Camperdown’s affair. Lizzie 
Ijgd never entertained her friends in style 
before. She had had a few people to dine 
with her in London, and once or twice had 
received company on an evening. But in 
all her London doings there had been the 
trepidation of fear, to be accounted for by 
her youth and widowhood ; and it was at 
Portray — her own house at Portray — that 
it would best become her to exercise hos- 
pitality. She had bided her time even 
there, but now she meant to show her 
friends that she had got a house of her 
own. 

She wrote even to her husband’s uncle, 
the bishop, asking him down to Portray. 
He could not come, but sent an affection- 
ate answer, and thanked her for thinking 
of him. Many people she asked who, she 
felt sure, would not come, and one or 
two of them accepted her invitation. 
John Eustace promised to be with her for 
two days. When Frank had left her, 
going out of her presence in the manner 
that has been described, she actually 
wrote to him, begging him to join her 
party. This was her note : 

“Come to me, just for a week,” she 
said, “ when my people are here, so that I 
may not seem to be deserted. Sit at the bot- 
tom of my table, and be to me as a brother 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


161 


might. I shall expect you to do so much 
for me.” To this he had replied that he 
would come during the first week in No- 

And she got a clergyman down from 
London — the Rev. Joseph Emilius, of 
whom it was said that he was born a J ew 
in Ilungar}’^, and that his name in his own 
country had been Mealyus. At the pres- 
ent time he was among the most eloquent 
of London preachers, and was reputed by 
some to have reached such a standard of 
pulpit oratory as to have had no equal 
within the memory of living hearers. In 
i*egard to his reading it Avas acknowledged 
that no one since Mrs. Siddons had touch- 
ed him. But he did not get on very well 
with any particular bishop, and there 
was doubt in the minds of some people 
Avhether there was or was not any — 
Mrs. Emilius. He had come up quite 
suddenly within the last season, and had 
made church-going quite a pleasant occu- 
pation to Lizzie Eustace. 

On the last day of October Mr. Emilius 
and Mr. John Eustace came, each alone. 
Mrs. Carbuncle and Miss Roanoke came 
over with post-horses from Ayr, as also 
did Lord George and Sir Griffin about an 
hour after them. Frank was not j^et ex- 
pected. He had promised to name a day, 
and had not yet named it. 

Varra weel, varra weel,” Gowran 
had said when he was told of what was 
about to occur, and was desired to make 
preparations necessary in regard to the 
outside plenishing of the house; “ nae 
doot she’ll do with her ain what pleases 
lier ainself. The mair ye poor out, the 
less there’ll be left in. Mr. Jo-ohn com- 
ing? I’ll be glad then to see Mr. Jo-ohn. 
Go, ay; aits; — there’ll be aits eneuch. 
And anither coo ! You’ll Avant twa ither 
coos. I’ll see to the coos.” And Andy 
GoAvran,'in spite of the internecine war- 
fare which existed betAveen him and his 
mistress, did see to the hay, and the cows, 
and the oats, and the extra servants that 
were wanted inside and outside the house. 
There was enmity between him and Lady 
Eustace, and he didn’t care who kncAv it ; 
but he took her Avages and be did her 
Avork. 

Mrs. Carbuncle was a Avonderful woman. 
She Avas the wife of a man Avith Avhom she 
was very rarely seen, Avhom nobody kneAv, 
Avho was something in the Citj", but some- 
body who never succeeded in making 
11 


money ; and yet she w'ent everywhere. 
She had at least the reputation of going 
everyAvhere, and did go to a great many 
places. Carbuncle had no money — so it 
was said ; and she had none. She Avas 
the daughter of a man avIio had gone to 
NeAV York and had failed there. Of her 
OAvn parentage no more Avas knoAvn. She 
had a small house in one of the very small 
May Fair streets, to which she wa^j wont 
to invite her friends for five o’clock tea. 
Other receptions she never attempted. 
During the London seasons she always 
kept a carriage, and during the winters 
she always had hunters. Who paid for 
them no one knew or cared. Her dress 
Avas ahvays perfect, as far as fit and per- 
formance went. As to approving Mi-s. 
Carbuncle’s manner of dress — that AA’as a 
question of taste. Audacity may, per- 
haps, be said to have been the ruling prin- 
ciple of her toilet ; not the audacity of 
indecency, which, let the satirists say 
what they may, is not efficacious in Eng- 
land, but audacity in color, audacity in 
design, and audacity in construction. She 
would ride in the park in a black and 3'el- 
low habit, and appear at the oi)era in 
white velvet without a speck of color. 
Though certainly turned thirty, and prob- 
ably nearer to forty, she would Avear her 
jet-black hair streaming down her back , and 
Avhen June came Avould drhe about Lon- 
don in a straAV hat. But yet it was al- 
Avaj's admitted that she was well dressed. 
And then Avould arise that question, AY ho 
paid the bills ? 

Mrs. Carbuncle was certainly a hand- 
some Avoman. She AA’as full-faced, with 
bold eyes, rather far apart, perfect black 
eyebrows, a well-formed broad nose, thick 
lips, and regular teeth. Her chin w’as 
round and short, with perhajAS a little 
bearing towards a double chin. But 
though her face AA’as plump and round, 
there was a power in it, and a look of 
command, of which it was perhaps diffi- 
cult to say in Avhat features was the seat. 
But in truth the mind will lend a tone to 
every feature, and it was the desire of 
Mrs. Carbuncle’s heart to command. But 
perhaps the wonder of her face was its 
complexion. People said, before they 
knew her, that, as a matter of course, she 
had been made beautiful foreAer. But, 
though that too brilliant color Avas almost 
alwaj's there, covering the cheeks but 
never touching the forehead or the neck, 


162 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


it would at certain moments shift, change, 
and even depart. When she was angry, 
it would vanish for a moment and then re- 
turn intensified. There was no chemistry 
on Mrs. Carbuncle’s cheek ; and yet it 
w'as a tint so brilliant and so little trans- 
parent as almost to justify a conviction 
that it could not be genuine. There were 
those who declared that nothing in the 
way of complexion so beautiful as that of 
Mrs. Carbuncle’s had been seen on the 
face of any other woman in this age, and 
there were others who called her an exag- 
gerated milkmaid. She Avas tall, too, and 
had learned so to walk as though half the 
world belonged to her. 

Her niece. Miss Roanoke, Avas a lady of 
the same stamp, and of similar beauty, Avith 
those additions and also with those draAV- 
backs Avhich belong to youtli . She looked as 
though she Avere four-and-tAA^enty, but in 
truth she Avas no more than eighteen. 
When seen beside her aunt, she seemed to 
be no more than half the elder lady’s size ; 
and yet her proportions were not insignifi- 
cant. She, too, Avas tall, and Avas as one 
used to command, and Avalked as though 
she Avere a young Juno. Her hair Avas 
very dark — almost black — and very plenti- 
ful. Her .eyes Avere large and bright, 
though too bold for a girl so young. Her 
nose and mouth were exactly as her aunt’s, 
but her chin was somewhat longer, so as 
to divest her face of that plump round- 
ness, which perhaps took something 
from the majesty of Mrs. Carbuncle’s 
appearance. Miss Roffnoke’s complexion 
was certainly marvellous. No one thought 
that she had been made beautiful forever, 
for the color Avould go and come and shift 
and change with every word and every 
thought ; but still it was there, as deep 
on her cheeks as on her aunt’s, though 
somewhat more transparent, and with 
more delicacy of tint as the bright hues 
laded aAvay and became merged in the 
almost marble whiteness of her skin. 
With Mrs. Carbuncle there was no merg- 
ing and fading. The red and white bor- 
dered one another on her cheek without 
any merging, as they do on a flag. 

Lucinda Roanoke was undoubtedly a 
very handsome Avoman. It probably 
never occurred to man or woman to say 
that {’.he was lovely. She had sat for her 
portrait during the last winter, and her 
picture had caused much remark in the 
Exhibition. Some said that she might be 


a Brinvilliers, others a Cleopatra, and 
others again a Queen of Sheba. In her 
eyes as they were limned there had been 
nothing certainly of love, but. they who 
likened her to the Egyptian ijueen be- 
lieved that Cleopatra’s love had always 
been used simply to assist her ambition. 
They who took the Brinvilliers side of the 
controversy Avere men so used to softness 
and flattery from Avomen as to have 
learned to think that a Avoman silent, 
arrogant, and hard of approach, must be 
always meditating murder. The disciples 
of the Queen of Sheba school, who formed 
perhaps the more numerous party, were 
led to their opinion by the majesty of Lu- 
cinda’s demeanor rather than by any clear 
idea in their OAvn minds of the lady who 
visited Solomon. All men, however, 
agreed in this, that Lucinda Roanoke was 
very handsome, but that she AAms not the 
sort of girl with Avhom a man Avoiild wish 
to stray aAvay through the distant beech- 
trees at a picnic. 

In truth she Avas silent, grave, and, if 
not really haughty, subject to all the signs 
of haughtiness. She Avent everywhere 
AAuth her aunt, and alloAved herself to be 
Avalked out at dances, and to be accosted 
Avhen on horseback, and to be spoken to 
at parties ; but she seemed hardly to trou- 
ble herself to talk ; and as for laughing, 
flirting, or giggling, one might as AA’ell 
expect such levity from a marble Minerva. 
During the last winter she had taken to 
hunting with her aunt, and already could 
ride Avell to hounds. If assistance Avere 
Avanted at a gate, or in the management 
of a fence, and the servant Avho attended 
the tAvo ladies Avere not near enough to 
give it, she Avould accept it as her due 
from the man nearest’ to her; but she 
rarely did more than bow her thanks, and, 
even by young lords, or hard-riding hand- 
some colonels, or squires of undoubted 
thousands, she could hardly ever be 
brought to what might be calleil a proper 
hunting-field conversation. All of Avhich 
things Avere noted, and spoken of, and ad- 
mired. It must be presumed that Lucinda 
Roanoke was in Avnnt of a husband, and 
yet no girl seemed to take less pains to 
get one. A girl ought not to be always 
busying herself to bring doAvn a man, but 
a girl ought to give herself some charms. 
A girl so handsome as Lucinda Roanoke, 
with pluck enough to ride like a bird, dig- 
nity enough for a duchess, and who Avaa. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


163 


undoubtedly clever, ought to put herself 
in the way of taking such good things as 
her charms and merits would bring her ; 
but Lucinda Roanoke stood aloof and 
despised eveiybody. So it was that Lu- 
cinda was spoken of when her name was 
mentioned ; and her name was mentioned 
a good deal after the opening of the exhi- 
bition of pictures. — 

There was some difficulty about her — 
as to who she was. That she was an Amer- 
ican was the received opinion. Her 
mother, as well as Mrs. Carbuncle, had 
certainly been in New York. Carbuncle 
was a London man ; but it was supposed 
that Mr. Roanoke was, or had been, an 
American. The received opinion was cor- 
rect. Lucinda had been bom in New 
York, had been educated there till she was 
sixteen, and then been taken to Paris for 
nine months, and from Paris had been 
brought to London by her aunt. Mrs. 
Carbuncle always spoke of Lucinda’s edu- 
cation as having been thoroughly Parisian. 
Of her own education and antecedents, 
Lucinda never spoke at all. “ I’ll tell 
you what it is,” said a young scamp from 
Eton to his elder sister, when her charac- 
ter and position were once being discussed, 
“ she’s a heroine, and would shoot a fel- 
low as soon as look at him.” In that 
scamp’s family Lucinda was ever after- 
wards called the heroine. 

The manner in which Lord George de 
Bruce Carruthers had attached himself to 
these ladies was a mystery ; but then 
Lord George was always mysterious. He 
was a young man — so considered — about 
forty-five years of age, who had never 
done anything in the manner of other peo- 
ple. He hunted a great deal, but he did 
not fraternize with hunting men, and 
would appear now in this county and now 
in that, with an utter disregard of grass, 
fences, friendships, or foxes. Leicester, 
Essex, Ayrshire, or the Baron had equal 
delights for him ; and in all counties he 
was quite at home. He had never owned 
a fortune, and had never been known to 
earn a shilling. It \jas said that early in 
life he had been apprenticed to an attor- 
ney at Aberdeen as George Carruthers. 
His third cousin, the Marquis of Killie- 
crankie, had been killed out hunting ; the 
second scion of the noble family had fallen 
at Balaclava; a third had perished in the 
Indian Mutiny; and a fourth, who did 
reign for a few months, died suddenly, 


leaving a large family of daughters. 
Within three years the four brothers van- 
ished, leaving among them no male heir, 
and George’s elder brother, who was then 
in a West India regiment, was called 
home from Demerara to be Marquis of 
Killiecrankie. By a usual exercise of the 
courtesy of the Crown, all the brothers 
were made lords, and some twelve years 
before the date of our story George Carru- 
thers, who had long since left the attor 
ney’s office at Aberdeen, became Lord 
George de Bruce Carruthers. How he 
liv’ed no one knew. That his brother did 
much for him was presumed to be impos- 
sible, as the property entailed on the Kil- 
liecrankie title certainly was not large. 
He sometimes went into the City, and Avas 
supposed to know something about shares. 
Perhaps he played a little, and made a 
few bets. He generally lived with men 
of means, or perhaps Avith one man of 
means at a time ; but they Avho knew 
him Avell declared that he never borrowed 
a shilling from a friend, and never owed a 
guinea to a tradesman. He always had 
horses, but neA'er had a home. When in 
London he lodged in a single room, and 
dined at his club. He was a Colonel of 
Volunteers, having got up the regiment 
known as the Long Shore Riflemen — the 
roughest regiment of A’olunteers in all 
England — and was reputed to be a bitter 
Radical. He was suspected even of re- 
publican sentiments, and ignorant young 
men about London hinted that he Avas the 
grand centre of the British Fenians. He 
had been invited to stand for the Tower 
Hamlets, but had told the deputation 
which waited upon him that he knew a 
thing Avorth tAvo of that. Would they 
guarantee his expenses, and then give him 
a salary? The deputation doubted its 
ability to promise so much. “ I more 
than doubt it,” said Lord George ; and 
then the deputation went away. 

In person he was a long-legged, long- 
bodied, long-faced man, with rough Avhis 
kers and a rough beard on his upper lip, 
but with a shorn chin. His eyes Avere 
A’ery deep set in his head, and his cheeks 
were hollow and sallow ; and yet he 
looked to be and was a powerful, healthy 
man. He had large h'ands, which seemed 
to be all bone, and long arms, and a neck 
which looked to be long, because he so 
wore his shirt that much of his throat was 
always bare. It was manifest enough that 


164 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


he liked to have good-looking women 
about him, and yet nobody presumed it 
probable tliat he would marry. For the 
last two or three years there had been 
friendship between him and Mrs. Carbun- 
cle ; and during the last season he had be- 
come almost intimate with our Lizzie. 
Lizzie thought that perhaps he might be 
the Corsair whom, sooner or later in her 
life, she must certainly encounter. 

Sir Griffin Tewett, who at the present 
period of his existence was being led about 
by Lord George, was not exactly an amia- 
ble young baronet. Nor were his circum- 
stances such as make a man amiable. He 
was nominally not only the heir to, but 
actually the possessor of a large property ; 
but he could not tguch the principal, and 
of the income only so much as certain legal 
curmudgeons would allow him. As Grey- 
stock had said, everybody was at law with 
him, so successful had been his father in 
mismanaging, and miscontrolling, and 
misappropriating the property. Tewett 
Hall had gone to rack and ruin for four 
years, and was now let almost for nothing, 
lie was a fair, frail young man, with a 
bad eye, and a weak mouth, and a thin 
hand, who was fond of liqueurs, and hated 
to the death any acquaintance who won a 
iive-pound note of him, or any tradesman 
who wished to have his bill paid. But he 
had this redeeming quality — that having 
found Lucinda Roanoke to be the hand- 
somest woman he had ever seen, he did 
desire to make her his wife. 

Such were the friends whom Lizzie Eus- 
tace received at Portray Castle on the first 
day of her grand hospitality — together 
with John Eustace and Mr. Joseph 
Emilius, the fashionable preacher from 
May Fair. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

LIZZIE'S FIRST DAY. 

The coming of John Eustace was cer- 
tainly a great thing for Lizzie, though it 
was only for two days. It saved her from 
that feeling of desertion before her friends 
— desertion by those who might naturally 
lielong to her — which would otherwise 
have afflicted her. .His presence there for 
two days gave her a start. She could call 
him John, and bring down her boy to 
him, and remind him, with the sweetest 
smile — with almost a tear in her eye — that 


he was the boy’s guardian. “ Little fel- 
low ! So much depends on that little life, 
does it not, John? ” she said, whispering 
the words into his ear. 

“Lucky little dog!” said John, pat- 
ting the boy’s head. “Let me see! of 
course he’ll go to Eton.” 

“ Not yet,” said Lizzie with a shudder. 

“ Well, no, hardly ; when he’s twelve.” 
And then the boy was done with and was 
carried away. She had played that card 
and had turned her trick. John Eustace 
was a thoroughly good-natured man of 
the world, who could forgive many faults, 
not expecting people to be perfect. He 
did not like Mrs. Carbuncle ; was indif- 
ferent to Lucinda’s beauty ; was afraid 
of that Tartar, Lord George ; and thor- 
oughly despised Sir Griffin. In his heart 
he believed Mr. Emilius to be an impos- 
tor, who might, for aught he knew, pick 
his pocket : and Miss Macnulty had no 
attraction for him. But he smiled, and 
was gay, and called Lady Eustace by her 
Christian name, and was content to be of 
use to her in showing her friends that she 
liad not been altogether dropped by the 
Eustace people. “ I got such a nice af- 
fectionate letter from the dear bishop,” 
said Lizzie, “ but he couldn’t come. He 
could not escape a previous engagement.” 

“It’s a long way,” said John, “and 
he’s not so young as he was once ; and 
then there are the Bobsborough parsons 
to look after.” 

“ I don’t suppose anything of that kind 
stops him,” said Lizzie, who did not think 
it possible that a bishop’s bliss should be 
alloyed by work. John was so very nice 
that she almost made up her mind to talk 
to him about the necklace ; but she was 
cautious, and thought of it, and found 
that it would be better that she should 
abstain. John Eustace was certainly 
very good-natured, but perhaps he might 
say an ugly word to her if she were rash . 
She refrained, therefore, and after break- 
fast on the second day he took his departure 
without an allusion to things that were 
unpleasant. 

“ I call my brottier-in-law a perfect 
gentleman,” said Lizzie with enthusiasm, 
when his back was called. 

“ Certainly,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. 
“ He seems to me to be very quiet.” 

“ He didn’t quite like his party,” said 
Lord George. 

“ I am sure he did,” said Lizzie. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


165 


“ I mean as to politics. To him we are 
all tarbutent demagogues and Bohemians. 
Eustace is an old-world Tory, if there’s 
one left anywhere. But you’re right, 
Lady Eustace ; he is a gentlemen.” 

“ He knows on which side his bread is 
buttered as well as any man,” said Sir 
Griffin. 

“ Am I a demagogue,” said Lizzie, ap- 
pealing to the Corsair, “or a Bohemian? 
I didn’t know it.” 

“ A little in that way, I think. Lady 
Eustace ; not a demagogue, but dema- 
gogical ; not Bohemian, but that way 
given.” 

‘ ‘ And is Miss Roanoke demagogical ? ’ ’ 

“ Certainly,” said Lord George. “ I 
hardly wrong you there. Miss Roanoke ? ” 

“ Lucinda is a democrat-, but hardly a 
demagogue. Lord George,” said Mrs. Car- 
buncle. 

“ Those are distinctions which we hardly 
understand on this thick-headed side of 
the water. But demagogues, democrats, 
demonstrations, and Demosthenic orator}' 
are all equally odious to John Eustace. 
For a young man he’s about the best Tory 
I know.” 

“ He is true to his colors,” said Mr. 
Emilius, who had been endeavoring to 
awake the attention of Miss Roanoke on 
the subject of Shakespeare’s dramatic ac- 
tion, “ and I like men who are true to 
their colors.” Mr. Mealy us spoke with 
the slightest possible tone of foreign ac- 
cent— a tone so slight that it simply served 
to attract attention to him. 

While Eustace was still in the house, 
there had come a letter from Frank Grey- 
stock, saying that he would reach Por- 
tray, by way of Glasgow, on Wednesday, 
the 5th of November.’ He must sleep in 
Glasgow on that night, having business, 
or friends, or pleasure demanding his at- 
tention in that prosperous mart of com- 
merce. It had been impressed upon him 
that he should hunt, and he had con- 
sented. There was to be a meet out on 
the Kilmarnock side of the county on that 
Wednesday, and he would bring a horse 
with him from Glasgow. Even in Glas- 
gow a hunter was to be hired, and could 
be sent forty or fifty miles out of the town 
in the morning and brought back in the 
evening. Lizzie had learned all about 
that, and had told him. If he would call 
at MacFarlane’s stables in Buchanan 
street, or even write to Mr. MacFarlane, 


he would be sure to get a horse that would 
carry him. MacFarlane was sending 
horses down into the Ayrshire country 
every day of his life. It was simply an 
affair of monej". Three guineas for the 
horse, and then just the expense of the 
railway. Frank, who knew quite as 
much about it as did his cousin, and who 
never thought much of guineas or of rail- 
way tickets, promised to meet the parfy 
at the meet ready equipped. His things 
would go on by train, and Lizzie must 
send for them to Troon. He presumed a 
beneficent Providence would take the 
horse back to the bosom of Mr. MacFar- 
lane. Such was the tenor of his letter. 
“If he don’t mind, he’ll find himself 
astray,” said Sir Griffin. “ He’ll have 
to go one way by rail and his horse an- 
other.” “ We can manage better for our 
cousin than that,” said Lizzie, with a re- 
buking nod. 

But there was hunting from Portray 
before Frank Greystock came. It was 
specially a hunting party, and Lizzie was 
to be introduced to the glories of the 
fiejd. In giving her her due, it must be 
acknowledged that she was fit for tin; 
work. She rode well, though she had 
not ridden to hounds, and her courage 
was cool. She looked well on horseback, 
and had that presence of mind which 
should never desert a lady when she is 
hunting. A couple of horses had been 
purchased for her, under Lord George’s 
superintendence — his conjointly with Mrs. 
Carbuncle’s — and had been at the castle 
for the last ten days, “g,eating their varra 
heeds off,” as Andy Gowran had said in 
sorrow. There had been practising even 
while John Eustace was there, and before 
her preceptors had slept three nights at 
the castle she had ridden backward and 
forward half a dozen times over a stone 
wall. “ Oh, yes,” Lucinda had said, in 
answer to a remark from Sir Griffin, “ it’s 
easy enough — till you come across some- 
thing difficult.” 

“ Nothing difficult stops you,” said Sir 
Griffin ; to which compliment Lucinda 
vouchsafed no reply. 

On the Monday Lizzie went out hunting 
for the first time in her life. It must be 
owned that, as she put her habit on, and 
afterward breakfasted with all her guests 
in hunting gear around her, and then was 
driven with them in her own carriage to 
the meet, there was something of trepida* 


166 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


tion at her heart. And her feeling of 
cautious fear in regard to money had re- 
ceived a shock. Mrs. Carbuncle had told 
her that a couple of horses fit to carry her 
might perhaps cost her about £ 180. Lord 
George had received the commission , and 
the check required from her had been for 
£320. Of course she had written the 
check without a word, but it did begin 
to occur to her that hunting was an ex- 
pensive amusement. Gowran had in- 
formed her that he had bought a rick of 
hay from a neighbor for £75 9c?. 

“ God forgie me,” said Andy, “ but I 
b’lieve I’ve been o’er hard on the puir 
man in your leddyship’s service.” £75 
155. 9c?. did seem a great deal of money to 
pay ; and could it be necessary that she 
should buy a whole rick ? There were to 
be eight horses in the stable. To what 
friend could she apply to learn how much 
of a rick of hay one horse ought to eat in 
a month of hunting ? In such a matter 
she might have trusted Andy Gowran im- 
plicitly ; but how was she to know that ? 
And then, what if at some desperate fence 
she were to be thrown off and break her 
nose and knock out her front teeth ’ Was 
the game worth the candle ? She was by 
no means sure that she liked INIrs. Car- 
buncle very much. And though she liked 
Lord George very well, could it be possi- 
ble that he bought the horses for £90 each 
and charged her £160? Corsairs do do 
these sort of things. The horses them- 
selves were two sweet dears, with stars on 
their foreheads, and shining coats, and a 
delicious aptitude for jumping over every- 
thing at a moment’s notice. Lord George 
had not, in truth, made a penny by them, 
and they were good hunters, .worth the 
money ; but how was Lizzie to know that? 
But though she doubted, and was full of 
fears, she could smile and look as though 
she liked it. If the worst should come 
she could certainly get money for the dia- 
monds. 

On that Monday the meet was compara- 
tively near to them — distant only twelve 
miles. On the following Wednesday it 
would be sixteen, and they would use the 
railway, having the carriage sent to meet 
thfeni in the evening. The three ladies 
and Lord George filled the carriage, and 
Sir Griffin was perched upon the box. 
The ladies’ horses had gone on with two 
grooms, and those for Lord George and 
Sir Griffin wore to come to the meet. 


Lizzie felt somewhat proud of her estab- 
lishment and her equipage, but at the 
same time somewhat fearful. Hitherto 
she knew but very little of the country 
people, and was not sure how she might 
be received; and then how would it be 
with her if the fox should at once start 
away across country, and she should lack 
either the pluck or the power to follow? 
There was Sir Griffin to look after Miss 
Roanoke, and Lord George to attend to 
Mrs. Carbuncle. At last an idea so hor- 
rible struck her that she could not keep it 
down. “ What am I to do,” she said, 
“ if I find myself all alone in a field, and 
everybody else gone away? ” 

“We won’t treat you quite in that fash- 
ion,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ The only possible way in which you 
can be alone in a field is that you will have 
cut everybody else down,” said Lord 
George. 

“ I suppose it will all come right,” said 
Lizzie, plucking up her courage, and tell- 
ing herself that a woman can die but once. 

Everything was right — as it usually is. 
The horses were there — quite a throng of 
horses, as the two gentlemen had two 
each ; and there was, moreover, a mounted 
groom to look after the three ladies. Liz- 
zie had desired to have a groom to herself, 
but had been told that the expenditure in 
horseflesh was more than the stable could 
stand. “ All I ever Avant of a man is to 
carry for me my flask, and waterproof, and 
luncheon, said Mrs. Carbuncle. “ I don’t 
care if 1 never see a groom, except for 
that.” 

“It’s convenient to have a gate opened 
sometimes,” said Lucinda, slowly. 

“ Will no one but a groom do that for 
you? ” asked Sir Griffin. 

“ Gentlemen can’t open gates,” said 
Lucinda. Now, as Sir Griffin thought 
that he had opened many gates during the 
last season for Miss Roanoke, he felt this 
to be hard. 

But there Avere eight horses, and eight 
horses with three servants and a carriage 
made quite a throng. Among the crowd 
of Ayrshire hunting men — a lord or 
two, a dozen lairds, two dozen farm- 
ers, and as many men of business out 
of Ayr, Kilmarnock, and away from 
Glasgow — it was soon told that Lady 
Eustace and her party Avere among them. 
A good deal had been already heard 
of Lizzie, and it was at least knovra of 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


1G7 


lier that she had, for her life, the Por- 
tray estate in her hands. So there "was 
an undercurrent of wliispering, and that 
sort of commotion vrhich the appearance 
of new-comers does produce at a hunt- 
meet. Lord George knew one or two 
men, who were surprised to find him in 
Ayrshire, and INIrs. Carbuncle was soon 
quite at home with a young nobleman 
whom she had met in the Vale with the 
Baron. Sir Griffin did not leave Lucinda’s 
side, and for a while poor Lizzie felt her- 
self alone in a crowd. 

Who does not know that terrible feel- 
ing, and the all but necessity that exists 
for the sufferer to pretend that he is not 
suffering — which again is aggravated by 
the conviction that the pretence is utterly 
vain? This may be bad with a man, but 
with a woman, who never looks to be 
alone in a crowd, it is terrible. For five 
minutes, during which everybod^’^ else 
was speaking to everybody — for five min- 
utes, which seemed to her to be an hour, 
Lizzie spoke to no one, and no one spoke 
to her. Was it for such misery as this 
that she was spending hundreds upon 
hundreds, and running herself into debt ? 
For she was sure that there would be debt 
before she parted with Mi-s. Carbuncle. 
There are people, very many people, to 
whom an act of hospitality is in itself a 
good thing ; but there are others who are 
always making calculations, and endeavor- 
ing to count up the thing purchased 
against the cost. Lizzie had been told 
that she was a rich woman — as women go, 
very rich. Surely she was entitled to en- 
tertain a few friends ; and if Mrs. Car- 
buncle and Miss Roanoke could hunt, it 
could not be that hunting was beyond her 
own means. And yet she was spending a 
great deal of money. She had seen a 
large wagon loaded with sacks of corn 
coming up the hill to the Portray stables, 
and she knew that there would be a long 
bill at the corn-chandler’s. There had 
been found a supply of wine in the cellars 
at Portray, which at her request had 
been inspected by her cousin Frank ; but 
it had been necessary, so he had told her, 
to have much more sent down from Lon- 
don — champagne, and liqueurs, and other 
nice things that cost money. “ You won’t 
like not to have them if these people are 
coming?” “Oh, no; certainly not,” said 
Lizzie with enthusiasm. What other rich 
people did, she would do. But now, in 


her five minutes of misery, she counted it 
all up, and was at a loss to find what was 
to be her return for her expenditure. 
And then, if on this, her first day, she 
should have a fall, with no tender hand to 
help her, and then find that she had 
knocked out her front teeth ! 

But the cavalcade began to move, and 
then Lord George was by her side. “ You 
mustn’t be angry if I seem to stick too 
close to you,” he said. She gave him 
her sweetest smile as she told him that 
that would be impossible. “ Because, you 
know, though it’s the easiest thing in the 
world to get along out hunting, and 
women never come to grief, a person is a 
little astray at first.” 

“ I shall be so much astray,” said Liz- 
zie. “ I don’t at all knowhow we are going 
to begin. Are we hunting a fox now? ” 
At this moment they were trotting across 
a field or two, through a run of gates up 
to the first covert. 

“ Not quite yet. The hounds haven’t 
been put in yet. Y’ou see that wood 
there? I suppose they’ll draw that.” 

“ AVhat is drawing, Lord George ? 1 
want to know all about it, and I am so Ig- 
norant. Nobody else will tell me.” Then 
Lord George gave his lesson, and ex- 
plained the theory and system of foxhunt- 
ing. “ We’re to wait here, then, till the 
fox runs away? But it’s ever so large, 
and if he runs away, and nobody .sees 
him? I hope he will, because it will be 
nice to go on easily.” 

“ A great many people hope that, and 
a great many think it nice to go on easily". 
Only you must not confess to it.” Then 
he went on with his lecture, and explained 
the meaning of scent; was great on the 
difficulty of getting away ; described the 
iniquity of heading the fox ; spoke of up 
wind and down wind ; got as far as the 
trouble of “ carrying,” and told her that 
a good ear was everything in a big wood — 
when there came upon them the thrice- 
repeated note of an old hound’s voice, and 
the quick scampering, and low, timid, 
anxious, trustful whinnying of a dozen 
comrade younger hounds, who recognized 
the sagacity of their well-known and 
highly-appreciated elder. “ That’s a fox,” 
said Lord George. 

“What shall I do now?” said Lizzie, 
all in a twitter. 

“ Sit Just where you are, and light a 
cigar, if you’re given to smoking.” 


1G8 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ Pray don’t joke with me. You know 
1 want to do it properly.” 

‘‘ And therefore you must sit just where 
you are, and not gallop about. There’s a 
matter of a hundred and twenty acres 
liere, I should say, and a fox doesn’t al- 
ways choose to be evicted at the first no- 
tice. It’s a chance whether he goes at all 
from a wood like this. I like woods my- 
self, because, as you say, we can take it 
easy ; but if you want to ride, you 
should — By George, they’ve killed him.” 

“ Killed the fox?” 

“ Yes ; he’s dead. Didn’t you hear? ” 

“ And is that a hunt?” 

“ Well — as far as it goes, it is.” 

“Why didn’t he runaway? What a 
stupid beast ! I don’t see so very much 
in that. Who killed him? That man 
that was blowing the horn ? ’ ’ 

“ The hounds chopped him.” 

“ Chopped him ! ” Lord George was 
very patient, and explained to Lizzie, who 
was now indignant and disappointed, the 
misfortune of chopping. “And are we 
to go home now ? Is it all over ? ” 

“ They say the country is full of foxes,” 
said Lord George. “ Perhaps we shall 
chop half a dozen.” 

“Dear me! Chop half a dozen foxes ! 
Do they like to be chopped? I thought 
they alway^s ran away.” 

Lord George was constant and patient, 
and Tode at Lizzie’s side from covert to 
covert. A second fox they did kill in the 
same fashion as the first ; a third they 
couldn’t hunt a yard ; a fourth got to 
ground after five minutes, and was dug out 
ingloriously, during which process a driz- 
zling rain commenced 

“ Where is the man with my water- 
proof? ” demanded Mrs. Carbuncle. Lord 
George had sent the man to see whether 
there was shelter to be had in a neighboring 
yard. And Mrs. Carbuncle was angry. 
“ It’s my own fault,” she said, “for not hav- 
ing my own man. Lucinda, you’ll be wet.” 

“ I don’t mind the wet,” said Lucinda. 
Tiucinda never did mind anything. 

. “ If you’ll come with me, we’ll get into 
a barn,” said Sir Griffin. 

“ I like the wet,” said Lucinda. All 
the while seven men were at work with 
picks and shovels, and the master and four 
or five of the more ardent sportsmen were 
deeply engaged in what seemed to be a 
mining operation on a small scale. The 
huntsman stood over giving his orders. 


One enthusiastic man, who had been lying 
on his belly, grovelling in the mud for five 
minutes, with a long stick in his hand, 
was now applying the point of it scientifi- 
cally to his nose. An ordinary observer 
with a magnifying glass might have seen 
a hair at the end of the stick. “ He’s 
there,” said the enthusiastic man, covered 
with mud, after a long-drawn eager sniff 
at the stick. The huntsman deigned to 
give one glance. “ That’s rabbit,” said 
the huntsman. A conclave was immedi- 
ately formed over the one visible hair that 
stuck to the stick, and three experienced 
farmers decided that it was rabbit.. The 
muddy, enthusiastic man, silenced but not 
convinced, retired from the crowd, leaving 
his stick behind him, and comforted him- 
self with his brandy-flask. 

“ He’s here, my lord,” said the hunts- 
man to his noble master, “ only we ain't 
got nigh him yet.” He spoke almost in 
a whisper, so that the ignorant crowd 
should not hear the words of wisdom, 
which they wouldn’t understand, or per- 
haps believe. “ It’s that full of rabbits 
that the holes is all hairs. They ain’t got 
no terrier here, I suppose. They never 
has aught that is wanted in these parts. 
Work round to the right, there — that’s 
his line.” The men did work round to 
the right, and in something under an hour 
the fox was dragged out by his brush and 
hind legs, while the experienced whip 
who dragged him held the poor brute tight 
by the back of his neck. “ An old dog, 
my lord. There’s such a many of ’em 
here, that they’ll be a deal better for a 
little killing.” Then the hounds ate their 
third fox for that day. 

Lady Eustace, in the mean time, and 
Mrs. Carbuncle, with Lord George, had 
found their way to the shelter of a cattle- 
shed. Lucinda had slowly followed, and 
Sir Griffin had followed her. The gentle- 
men smoked cigars, and the ladies, when 
they had eaten their luncheons and drank 
their sherry, were cold and cross. “If 
this is hunting,” said Lizzie, “ I really 
don’t think so much about it.” 

“ It’s Scotch hunting,” said Mra. Car- 
buncle. 

“ I have seen foxes dug out south of the 
Tweed,” suggested Lord George. 

“ I suppose everything is slow after the 
Baron,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, who had 
distinguished herself with the Baron’s 
stag-hounds last March. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


169 


“Are we to go home now?” asked 
Lizzie, who would have been well pleased 
to have received an answer in the affirma- 
tive. 

“ I presume they’ll draw again,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Carbuncle, with an angry 
frown on her brow. “ It’s hardly two 
o’clock.” 

“ They always draw till seven in Scot- 
land,” said Lord George. 

“ That’s nonsense,” said Mrs. Carbun- 
cle. “ It’s dark at four.” 

“ They have torches in Scotland,” said 
Lord George. 

“ They have a great many things in 
Scotland that are very far from agreea- 
ble,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. “ Lucinda, did 
you ever see three foxes killed without 
live minutes’ running, before? I never 
did.” 

“ I’ve been out all day without finding 
at all,” said Lucinda, who loved the 
truth. 

“And so have I,” said Sir GriflBn ; 
“ often. Don’t you remember that day 
when we went down from London to 
Bringher Wood, and they pretended to 
find at half-past four? That’s what I 
call a sell.” 

“ They’re going on. Lady Eustace,” 
said Dord George. “ If you’re not tired, 
we might as well see it out.” Lizzie was 
tired, but said that she was not, and she 
did see it out. They found a fifth fox, but 
again there was no scent. “ Who the 
is to hunt a fox with people scur- 
rying about like that?” said the hunts- 
man very angrilj’-, dashing forward at a 
couple of riders. “ The hounds is be- 
hind you, only you aint a-looking. Some 
people never do look.” The two peccant 
riders, unfortunately, were Sir Griffin and 
Lucinda. 

The day was one of those from which 
all the men and women return home cross, 
an^ which induce some half-hearted folk 
to declare to themselves that they never 
will hunt again. When the master de- 
cided a little after three that he would 
draw no more, because there wasn’t a yard 
of scent, our party had nine or ten miles 
to ride back to their carriages. Lizzie 
was very tired, and when Lord George 
took her from her horse could almost 
have cried from fatigue. Mrs. Carbuncle 
was never fatigued, but she had become 
damp — soaking wet through, a.s she her- 
self said — during the four minutes that 


the man was absent with her waterproof 
jacket, and could not bring herself to for- 
get the ill-usage she had suffered. Lu- 
cinda had become absolutely dumb, and 
any observer would have fancied that the 
two gentlemen had quarrelled with eacli 
other. “You ought to go on the box 
now,” said Sir GriflBn, grumbling. 
“ When you’re my age and I’m yours, I 
will,” said Lord George, taking his seat 
in the carriage. Then he appealed to 
Lizzie. “ You’ll let me smoke, won’t 
you?” She simply bowed her head. 
And so they went home — Lord George 
smoking, and the ladies dumb. Lizzie, 
as she dressed for dinner, almost cried 
with vexation and disappointment. 

There was a little conversation up stairs 
between Mrs. Carbuncle and Lucinda, 
when they were free from the attendance 
of their joint maid. “ It seems to me,” 
said Mrs. Carbuncle, “that you won’t 
make up your mind about anything.” 

“ There is nothing to make up my mind 
about.” 

“ I think there is — a great deal. Do 
you mean to take this man who is dan- 
gling after you? ” 

“ He isn’t worth taking.” 

“ Carruthers says that the property 
must come right, sooner or later. You 
might do better, perhaps, but you won’t 
trouble yourself. We can’t go on like 
this forever, you know.” 

“ If 3’ou hated it as much as I do, you 
wouldn’t want to go on.” 

“ Why don’t you talk to him ? I don’t 
think he*s at all a bad fellow.” 

“ I’ve nothing to say,” 

“ He’ll offer to-morrow, if you’ll accept 
him.” 

“ Don’t let him do that. Aunt Jane. 1 
couldn’t say Yes. As for loving him — oh , 
laws ! ” 

“It won’t do to go on like this, you 
know.” 

“ I’m only eighteen ; and it’s my 
money, aunt.” 

“And how long will it last? If you 
can’t accept him, refuse him, and let 
somebody else come.” 

“ It seems to me,” said Lucinda, “ that 
one is as bad as another. I’d a deal sooner 
marry a shoemaker and help him to make 
shoes.” 

“ That’s downright wickedness,” said 
Mrs. Carbuncle. And then they went 
down to dinner. 


170 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
nappie’s gray horse. 

During the leisure of Tuesday our 
friends regained their good humor, and on 
the Wednesday morning they again started 
for the hunting-field. Mrs. Carbuncle, 
who probably telt that she had behaved ill 
about the groom and in regard to Scot- 
land, almost made an apology, and ex- 
plained that a cold shower always did 
make her cross. “My dear Lady Eus- 
tace, I hope I wasn’t very savage.” 
“ My dear Mrs. Carbuncle, I hope I 
wasn’t very stupid,” said Lizzie with a 
smile. “ My dear Lady Eustace, and my 
dear Mrs. Carbuncle, and my dear Miss 
Roanoke, I hope I wasn’t very selfish,” 
said Lord George. 

“ I thought you were,” said Sir GriflBn. 

“Yes, Griflf; and so were you; but I 
succeeded.” 

“ I am almost glad that I wasn’t of the 
party,” said Mr. Emilius, with that musi- 
cal foreign tone of his. “ Miss Macnulty 
and I did not quarrel ; did we? ” 

“ No, indeed,” said Miss Macnulty, 
who had liked the society of Mr. Emilius. 

But on this morning there was an at- 
traction for Lizzie which the Monday had 
wanted. She was to meet her cousin, 
Frank Greystock. The journey was long, 
and the horses had ’gone on over night. 
They went by railway to Kilmarnock, and 
there a carriage from the inn had been or- 
dered to meet them. Lizzie, as she heard 
the order given, wondered whether she 
would have to pay for that, or whether 
Lord George and Sir Griffin would take so 
much off her shoulders. Young women 
generally pay for nothing ; and it was 
very hard that she, who was quite a young 
woman, should have to pay for all. But 
she smiled, and accepted the proposition. 
“ Oh, yes ; of course a carriage at the 
station. It is so nice to have some one to 
think of things, like Lord George.” The 
carriage met them, and everything went 
prosperously. Almost the first person 
they saw was Frank Greystock, in a black 
coat indeed, but riding a superb gray 
horse, and looking quite as though he 
knew what he was about. He was intro- 
duced to Mrs. Carbuncle and INIiss Roanoke 
and Sir Griffin. With Lord George he 
had some slight previous acquaintance. 

“ You’ve had no difficulty about a 
horse? ” said Lizzie. 


“ Not the slightest. But I was in an 
awful fright this morning, f wrote to 
MacFaidane from London, and absolutely 
hadn’t a moment to go to his place yester- 
day or this morning. I w'as staying over 
at Glenshiels, and had not a pioment to 
spare in catching the train. But I found 
a horse-box on, and a lad from MacFar- 
lane’s jusc leaving as I came up.” 

“ Didn’t he send a boy down with the 
horse? ” asked Lord George. 

“ I believe there is a boy, and the boy’ll 
be awfully bothered. I told them to book 
the horse for Kilmarnock.” 

“ They always do book for Kilmarnock 
for this meet,” said a gentleman who had 
made acquaintance with some of Lizzie’s 
party on the previous hunting-day ; “ but 
Stewarton is ever so much nearer.” 

“ So somebody told me in the carriage,” 
continued Frank, “ and I contrived to get 
my box off at Stewarton. The guard was 
uncommon civil, and so was the porter. 
But I hadn’t a moment to look for the 
boy.” 

“ I always make my fellow stick to his 
horses,” said Sir Griffin. 

“But you see. Sir Griffin, I haven’t got 
a fellow, and I’ve only hired a horse. 
But I shall hire a good many horses from 
Mr. MacFarlane if he’ll always put me up 
like this.” 

“ I’m so glad you’re here! ” said Liz- 
zie. 

“ So am I.‘ I hunt about twice in three 
j^ears, and no man likes it so much. I’ve 
still got to find out whether the beast can 
jump.” 

“ Any mortal thing alive, sir,” said 
one of those horsey-looking men who are 
to be found in all hunting-fields, who 
wear old brown breeches, old black coats, 
old hunting-caps, who ride screws, and 
never get thrown out. 

“ You know him, do you ? ” said Frank. 

“ I know him. I didn’t know as Mus- 
ter MacFarlane owned him. No more he 
don’t,” said the horsey man, turning aside 
to one of his friends. “ Tliat’s Nappie's 
horse, from Jamaica street.” 

“ Not possible,” said the friend. 

“ You’ll tell me I don’t know my own 
horse next.” 

“I don’t believe j'Ou ever owned one,” 
said the friend. 

Lizzie was in truth delighted to have 
her cousin beside her. He had, at any 
rate, forgiven what she had said to him 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


171 


at his Vast visit, or he would not have 
been there. And then, too, there was a 
feeling of reality in her connection with 
him, which was sadly wanting to her, un- 
real as she was herself, in her acquaint- 
ance with the other people around her. 
And on this occasion three or four people 
spoke or bowed to her, who had only 
stared at her before ; and the huntsman 
took off his cap, and hoped that he would 
do something better for her than on the 
previous Monday. And the huntsman 
was very courteous also to Miss Roanoke, 
expressing the same hope, cap in hand, 
and smiling graciousl3^ A huntsman 
at the beginning of any day or at the end 
of a good day is so different from a hunts- 
man at the end of a bad day ! A hunts- 
man often has a very bad time out hunt- 
ing, and it is sometimes a marvel that lie 
does not take the advice which Job got 
from his wife. But now all things were 
smiling, and it was soon known that his 
lordship intended to draw Craigattan 
Gorse. Now in those parts there is no 
surer find, and no better chance of a run, 
than Craigattan Gorse affords. 

“ There is one thing I want to ask, Mr. 
Grej’stock,” said Lord George, in Lizzie’s 
hearing. 

“You shall ask two,” said Frank. 

“ Who is to coach Lady Eustace to-day, 
3'ou or I?” 

“ Oh, do let me have somebody to coach 
me,” said Lizzie. 

“For devotion in coachmanship,” said 
Frank — “ devotion, that is, to mj^ cousin — 
I defy the world. In point of skill I yield 
to Lord George.” 

“ My pretensions are precisely the 
same,” said Lord George. “ I glow with 
devotion ; my skill is naught.” 

“I like you best. Lord George,” said 
Lizzie laughing. 

“ That settles the question,” said Lord 
George. 

“Altogether,” said Frank, taking off 
his hat. 

“ I mean as a coach,” said Lizzie, 

“ I quite understand the extent of the 
preference,” said Lord George. Lizzie 
was delighted, and thought the game was 
worth the candle. The noble master had 
told her that thej' were sure of a run from 
Craigattan, and she wasn’t in the least 
tired, and they were not called upon to 
stand still in a big wood, and it didn’t 
;ain, and, in every respect, the day was 


very different from Monday. Mounted on 
a bright-skinned, lively steed, with her 
cousin on one side and Lord George de 
Bruce Carruthers on the other, with all 
the hunting world of her own county civil 
around her, and a fox just found in Craig- 
attan Gorse, what could the heart of wo- 
man desire more? This was to live. 
There was, however, just enough of fear 
to make the blood run quickly to her. 
heart. “ We’ll be away at once now,” 
said Lord George with utmost earnest- 
ness ; “ follow me close, but not too close. 
When the men see that I am giving 3"ou a 
lead, they won’t come between. If you 
hang back. I’ll not go ahead. J ust check 
your horse as he comes to his fences, and, 
if you can, see me over before j^ou go at 
them. Now then, down the hill ; there’s 
a gate at the corner, and a bridge over 
the water. We couldn’t be better. By 
George ! there they are, all together. If 
they don’t pull him down in the first two 
minutes, we shall have a run.” 

Lizzie understood most of it, more at 
least than would nine out of ten young 
women who had never ridden a hunt be- 
fore. She was to go wherever Lord 
George led her, and she was to ride upon 
his heels. So much at least she under- 
stood, and so much she ^yas resolved to do. 
That dread about her jfront teeth which 
had perplexed her on Monday was alto- 
gether gone now. She would ride as fast 
as Lucinda Roanoke. That was her pre- 
vailing idea. Lucinda, with Mrs. Car- 
buncle, Sir Griffin, and the ladies’ groom, 
was at the other side of the covert. Frank 
had been with his cousin and Lord George, 
but had crept down the hill while the 
hounds were in the gorse. A man who 
likes hunting, but hunts only once a year, 
is desirous of doing the best lie can with 
his day. When the hounds came out and 
crossed the brook at the end of the gorse; 
perhaps he was a little too forward. But, 
indeed, the state of affairs did not leave 
much time for waiting, or for the etiquette 
of the hunting-field. Along the opposite 
margin of the brook there ran a low pal- 
ing, which made the water a rather nasty^ 
thing to face. A circuit of thirty or forty 
yards gave the easy riding of a little 
bridge, and to that all the crowd hurried. 
But one or two men with good eyes, and 
hearts as good, had seen the leading 
hounds across the brook turning up the 
hill away from the bridge, and knew that 


i73 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


two most necessary minutes might be lost 
in the crowd. Frank did as they did, hav- 
ing seen nothing of any hounds, but with 
instinctive knowledge that they were men 
likely to be right in a hunting-field. “ If 
that ain’t Nappie’s horse, I’ll eat him,” 
said one of the leading men to the other, 
as all the three were breasting the bill to- 
gether. Frank only knew that he had 
been carried over water and timber with- 
out a mistake, and felt a glow of gratitude 
toward Mr. MacFarlane. Up the hill 
they went, and, not waiting to inquire into 
the circumstances of a little gate, jumped 
a four-foot wall and were away. “ IIow 
the mischief did he get atop of Nappie’s 
horse? ” said the horsey man to his friend. 

“ We’re about right for it now,” said 
the huntsman, as he came up alongside of 
Frank. He had crossed the bridge, but 
had been the first across it, and knew how 
to get over his ground quickly. On they 
went, the horsey man leading on his thor- 
oughbred screw, the huntsman second, 
and Frank third. The pace had already 
been too good for the other horsey man . 

When Lord George and Lizzie had 
mounted the hill, there was a rush of 
horses at the little gate. As they topped 
the hill Lucinda and ^Irs. Carbuncle were 
jumping the wall. Lord George looked 
back and asked a question without a word. 
Lizzie answered it as mutely. Jump it! 
She was already a little short of breath, 
but she was ready to jump any tiling that 
Lucinda Roanoke had jumped. Over 
went Lord George, and she followed him 
almost without losing the stride of her 
horse. Surely in all the world there was 
nothing equal to this. There was a large 
grass field before them , and for a moment 
she came up alongside of Lord George. 
“Just steady him before he leaps,” said 
Lord George. She nodded her assent, 
and smiled her gratitude. She had plenty 
of breath for riding, but none for speak- 
ing. They were now very near to Lu- 
cinda, and Sir Griffin, and Mrs. Carbun- 
cle. “ The pace is too good for Mrs., Car- 
buncle’s horse,” said Lord George. Oh, 
if she could only pass them, and get up to 
those men whom she saw before her ! She 
knew that one of them was her cousin 
Frank. She had no wish to pass them, 
but she did wish ‘that he should see her. 
In the next fence Lord George spied a 
rail, which he thought safer than a blind 
hedge, and he made for it. His horse 


took it well, and so did Lizzie’s ; but Liz- 
zie jumped it a little too near him, as he 
had paused an instant to look at the 
ground. “ Indeed, I won’t do it again,” 
she said, collecting all her breath for an 
apology. “You are going admirably,” 
he said, “ and your horse is worth double 
the money.” She was so glad now that 
he had not spared for price in mounting 
her ! Looking to the right, she could see 
that Mrs. Carbuncle had onlj'^ just floun- 
dered through the hedge. Lucinda was 
still ahead, but Sir Griffin was falling be- 
hind, as though divided in duty between 
the niece and the aunt. Then they passed 
through a gate, and Lord George stayed 
his horse to hold it for her. She tried to 
thank him but. he stopped her. “ Don’t 
mind talking, but come along, and take 
it easy.” She smiled again, and he told 
himself that she was wondrous pretty. 
And then her pluck was so good ! And 
then she had four thousand a year ! 
“ Now for the gap ; don’t be in a hurry. 
You first, and I’ll follow you to keep oft’ 
these two men. Keep to the left, where 
the other horses have been.” On they 
went, and Lizzie was in heaven. She 
could not quite understand her feelings, 
because it had come to that with her that 
to save her life she could not have spoken 
a word. And yet she was not only happy 
but comfortable. The leaping was de- 
lightful, and her horse galloped with her 
as though his pleasure was as great as her 
own. She thought that she was getting 
nearer to Lucinda. For her, in her heart, 
Lucinda was the quarry. If she could 
only pass Lucinda I That there were any 
hounds she had altogether forgotten. 
She only knew that two or three men 
were leading the way, of whom her cousin 
Frank was one, that Lucinda Roanoke 
was following them closely, and that she 
was gaining upon Lucinda Roanoke. She 
knew she was gaining a little, because 
she could see now how well and squarely 
Lucinda sat upon her horse. As for her- 
self, she feared that she was rolling; but 
she need not have feared. She Avas st) 
small, and lithe, and light, that her body 
adapted itself naturally to the pace of her 
horse. Lucinda was of a different build, 
and it behooved her to make for herself a 
perfect seat. “ We must have the Avail,” 
said Lord George, who was again at her 
side for a moment. She would have 
“ had ” a castle wall, moat included, tur- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMOJ^DS. 


ITS 


rets and all, if he would only have shown 
her the way. The huntsman and Frank 
had taken the wall. The horsey man’s 
bit of blood, knowing his own powers to 
an inch, had declined — not roughly, with 
a sudden stop and a jerk, but with a 
swerve to the left which the horsey man 
at once understood. What the brute 
lacked in jumping he could make up in 
pace, and the horsey man was along the 
wall and over a broken bank at the head 
of it, with the loss of not more than a 
minute. Lucinda’s horse, following the 
ill example, balked the j ump. She turned 
him round with a savage gleam in her eye 
which Lizzie was just near enough to see, 
struck him rapidly over the shoulders with 
her whip, and the animal flew w'ith her into 
the next field. “ Oh, if I could do it like 
that,” thought Lizzie. But in that very 
minute she was doing it, not only as well 
but better. Not following Lord George, 
but close at his side, the little animal 
changed his pace, trotted for a yard or 
two, hopped up as though the wall were 
nothing, knocked ofT a top stone with his 
hind feet, and dropped on the ground so 
softly that Lizzie hardly believed that she 
had gone over the big obstruction that had 
cost Lucinda such an effort. Lucinda’s 
horse. came down on all four legs, with a 
grunt and a groan, and she knew that she 
had bustled him. At that moment Lu- 
cinda was very full of wrath against the 
horsey man with the screw who had been 
in her way. “ He touched it,” gasped 
Lizzie, thinking that her horse had dis- 
graced himself. “ He’s worth his weight 
in gold,” said Lord George. “ Come 
along. There’s a brook with a ford. 
Morgan is in it.” Morgan was the hunts- 
man. “Don’t let them get before you.” 
Oh, no. She would let no one get before 
her. She did her very best, and just got 
her horse’s nose on the broken track lead- 
ing down into the brook before Lucinda. 
“Pretty good, isn’t it?” said Lucinda. 
Lizzie smiled sweetly. She could smile, 
though she could not speak. “ Only they 
do balx one so at one’s fences,” said Lu- 
cinda. The horsey man had all but re- 
gained his place, and was immediately 
behind Lucinda, within hearing, as Lu- 
cinda knew. 

On the further side^of the field, beyond 
the brook, there was a little spinny, and 
for half a minute the hounds came to. a 
check. “ Give ’em time, sir, give ’em 


time,” said Morgan to Frank, speaking in 
full good humor, with no touch of Mon- 
day’s savagery. “ Wind him, Bolton ; 
Beaver’s got it. Very good thing, my 
lady, isn’t it? Now, Carstairs, if you’re 
a going to ’unt the fox you’d better ’unt 
him.” Carstairs was the horsey man, 
and one with whom Morgan very often 
quarrelled. “That’s it, my hearties,” 
and Morgan was across a broken wall in a 
moment, after the leading hounds, “ Are 
we to go on?” said Lizzie, who feared 
much that Lucinda would get ahead of 
her. There was a matter of three dozen 
horsemen up now, and, as far as Lizzie 
saw, the whole thing might have to be 
done again. In hunting, to have ridden is 
the pleasure ; and not simply to have rid- 
den well, but to have ridden better than 
others. “ I call it very awkward ground,” 
said Mrs. Carbuncle, coming up. “ It 
can’t be compared to the Baron’s country.” 
“Stone walls four feet and a half high, 
and well built, are awkward,” said the 
noble master. 

But the hounds were away again, and 
Lizzie had got across the gap before Lu- 
cinda, who, indeed, made way for her 
hostess with a haughty politeness which 
was not lost upon Lizzie. Lizzie could 
not stop to beg pardon, but she would re- 
member to do it in her prettiest way on 
their journey home. They were now on a 
track of open country, and the pace W'as 
quicker even than before. The same three 
men were still leading, Morgan, Grej*- 
stock, and Carstairs. Carstairs had 
slightly the best of it ; and of course Mor- 
gan swore afterward that he was among 
the hounds the whole run. “ The scent 
was that good there wasn’t no putting of 
’em off* ; no thanks to him,” said Morgan. 
“ I ’ate to see ’em galloping, galloping, 
galloping, with no more eye to the ’ounds 
than a pig. Any idiot can gallop if he’s 
got it under ’im.” All which only signi- 
fied that Jack Morgan didn’t like to see 
any of his field before him. There was 
need, indeed, now for galloping, and it 
may be doubted whether Morgan himself 
was not doing his best. There were about 
five or six in the second fight, and among 
these Lord George and Lizzie were well 
placed. But Lucinda had pressed again 
ahead. “ Miss Roanoke had better have 
a care or she’ll l)low her horse,” Lord 
George said. Lizzie didn’t mind 
happened to Miss Roanoke's horse so that 


174 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


it couM be made to go a little slower and 
fall behind. But Lucinda still pressed on, 
and her animal went with a longer stride 
than Lizzie's horse. 

They now crossed a road, descending a 
hill, and were again in a close country. 
A few low hedges seemed as nothing to 
Lizzie. She could see her cousin gallop 
over them ahead of her, as though they 
were nothing ; and her own horse, as he 
came to them, seemed to do exactly the 
same. On a sudden they found them- 
selves abreast with the huntsman. 
“ There’s a biggish brook below there, my 
lord,” said he. Lizzie was charmed to 
hear it. Hitherto she had jumped all the 
big things so easily, that it was a pleasure 
to hear of them. “ IIow are we to man- 
age it?” asked Lord George. “It is 
ridable, my lord ; but there’s a place 
about half a mile down. Let’s see hoAv’ll 
they head. Drat it, my lord, they’ve 
turned up, and we must have it or go back 
to the road.” Morgan hurried on, show- 
ing that he meant to “ have” it, as did 
also Lucinda. ‘ ‘ Shall we go to the road ? ’ ’ 
said Lord George. “ No, no I ” said Liz- 
zie. Lord George looked at her and at 
her horse, and then galloped after the 
huntsman and Lucinda. The horsey man 
with the well-bred screw was first over 
the brook. The little animal could take 
almost any amount of water, and his rider 
knew the spot. “ He’ll do it like a bird,” 
he had said to Greystock, and Greys tock 
had followed him. Mr. MacFarlane’s 
hired horse did do it like a bird. “I 
know him, sir,” said Carstairs. “Mr. 
Nappie gave £250 for him down in North- 
amptonshire last February ; bought him 
of Mr. Percival. You know Mr. Perci- 
val, sir? ” Frank knew neither Mr. Per- 
cival nor Mr. Nappie, and at this moment 
cared nothing for either of them. To him, 
at this moment, Mr. MacFarlane, of Bu- 
chanan street, Glasgow, was the best 
friend he ever had. 

Morgan, knowing well the horse he 
rode, dropped him into the brook, floun- 
dered and half swam through the mud and 
water, and scrambled out safely on the 
other side. “ He wouldn’t have jumped 
it with me, if I’d asked him ever so,” he 
said afterward. Lucinda rode at it, 
straight as an arrow, but her brute came 
to a dead balk, and, but that she sat well, 
would have thrown her into the stream. 
Lord George let Lizzie take the leap be- 


fore he took it, knowing that, if there were 
misfortune, he might so best render help. 

To Lizzie it seemed as though the river 
were the blackest, and the deepest, and 
the broadest that ever ran. For a moment 
her heart quailed ; but it was but for a 
moment. She shut her eyes, and gave the 
little horse his head. For a moment she 
thought tiiat she was in the water. Her 
horse was almost upright on the bank, 
with his hind feet down among the broken 
ground, and she was clinging to his neck. 
But she was light, and the beast made 
good his footing, and then she knew that 
she had done it.' In that moment of the 
scramble her heart had been so near her 
mouth that she was almost choked. When 
she looked round Lord George was al- 
ready by her side. “You hardly gave 
him powder enough,” he said, “ but still 
he did it beautifully. Good heavens? 
Miss Roanoke is in the river.” Lizzie 
looked back, and there, in truth, was Lu- 
cinda struggling with her horse in the wa- 
ter. They paused a moment, and then 
there were three or four men assisting 
her. “Come on,” said Lord George. 

“ There are plenty to take her out, and we 
couldn’t get to her if we stayed.” 

“I ought to stop,” said Lizzie. 

“You couldn’t get back if you gave 
your eyes for it,” said Lord George. . 
“She’s all right.” So instigated, Liz- 
zie followed her leader up the hill, and 
in a minute was close upon Morgan’s 
heels. 

The worst of doing a big thing out hunt- 
ing is the fact that in nine cases out of 
ten they who don’t do it are as well ofi’ as 
they who do. If there were any penalty 
for riding round, or any mark given to 
those who had ridden straight, so that 
justice might in some sort be done, it 
Avould perhaps be better. When you have 
nearly broken your neck to get to hounds, 
or made your horse exert himself beyond 
his proper power, and then find yourself, 
within three minutes, overtaking the 
hindmost ruck of horsemen on a road be- 
cause of some iniquitous turn that the fox 
has taken, the feeling is not pleasant. 
And some man who has not ridden at all, 
who never did ride at all, will ask you 
where j’ou have been ; and his smile will 
give you the lie in your teeth if you make 
any attempt to explain the facts. Let it 
be sufficient for you at such a moment to 
feel that you are not ashamed of yourself. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


175 


Seit-respect will sui^port a man even in 
such misery as this. 

The fox on this occasion, having crossed 
the river, had not left its bank, but had 
turned from his course up the stream, so 
that the leading spirits who had followed 
the hounds over the water came upon a 
crowd of riders on the road in a space 
something short of a mile. Mrs. Carbun- 
cle, among others, was there, and had 
heard of Lucinda’s mishap. She said a 
word to Lord George in anger, and Lord 
George answered her. “We were over 
the river before it happened, and if we had 
given our eyes we couldn’t have got to 
her. Don’t j'ou make a fool of yourself !” 
The last words were spoken in a whisper, 
but Lizzie’s sharp ears caught them. 

“ I was obliged to do what I was told,” 
said Lizzie apologetically. 

“ It will be all right, dear Lady Eus- 
tace. Sir Griffin is with her. I am so 
glad you are going so well.” 

They were off again now, and the stupid 
fox absolutely went back across the river. 
But, whether on one side or on the other, 
his struggle for life was now in vain. 
Two years of happy, free existence amid 
the wilds of Craigattan had been allowed 
him. Twice previously had he been 
“ found,” and the kindly storm or not less 
beneficent brightness of the sun had ena- 
bled him to baffle his pursuers. Now 
there had come one glorious day, and the 
common lot of mortals must be his. A 
little .spurt there was, back toward his 
own home, just enough to give something 
of selectness to the few who saw him fall, 
and then he fell. Among the few were 
Frank and Lord George and our Lizzie. 
Morgan was there, of course, and one of 
his whips. Of Ayrshire folk, perhaps five 
or six, and among them our friend Mr. 
Carstairs. They had run him down close 
to the outbuildings of a farm-yard, and 
they broke him up in the home paddock. 

“What do you think of hunting?” 
said Frank to his cousin. 

“ It’s divine.” 

“ My cousin went pretty well, 1 think,” 
he said to Lord George. 

“ Like a celestial bird of paradise. No 
one ever went better — or I believe so well. 
You’ve been carried rather nicely yourself” 

“ Indeed I have,” said Frank, patting 
his still palpitating horse, “ and he’s not 
to say tired now.” 

“ You’ve taken it pretty well out of 


him, sir,” said Carstairs. “ There was a 
little bit of hill that told when we got 
over the brook. I know’d you’d find he'd 
jump a bit.” 

“ I wonder whether he’s to be bought? ” 
asked Frank in his enthusiasm. 

“ 1 don’t know the horse that isn’t,” 
said Mr. Carstairs, “ so long as you don’t 
.stand at the figure.” 

They were collected on the farm road, 
and now, as they were speaking, there 
was a commotion among the horses. A 
man, driving a little buggy, was forcing 
his way along the road, and there was a 
sound of voices, as though the man in the 
buggy were angry. And he was' angry. 
Frank, who was on foot by his horse's 
head, could see that the man was dressed 
for hunting, with a bright red coat and a 
flat hat, and that he was driving the pony 
with a hunting-whip. The man was 
talking as he approached, but what he 
said did not much matter to Frank, till 
his new friend, Mr. Carstairs, whispered 
a word in his ear. “It’s Nappie, by 
Gum ! ” Then there crept across Frank’s 
mind an idea that there might be trouble 
coming. 

“ There he is,” said Nappie, bringing 
his pony to a dead stop with a chuck, and 
jumping out of the buggy. “ I say, you, 
sir; you’ve stole my ’orse.” Frank said 
not a word, but stood his ground with his 
hand on the mg’s bridle. “ You’ve stole 
my ’orse ; you’ve stole him off the rail. 
And you’ve been a-riding him all day. 
Yes, you ’ave. Did ever anybody see the 
like of this ? Why, the poor beast can 
a ’most stand.” 

“ I got him from Mr. MacFailane.” 

“ MacFarlane be blowed. You didn’t 
do nothing of the kind. You stole him 
off the rail at Stewarton. Yes, you did ; 
and him booked to Kilmarnock. Where’s 
a police ? Who’s to stand the like o’ this? 
I say, my lord, just look at this.” A 
crowd had now been formed round poor 
Frank, and the master had come up. Mr. 
Nappie was a Huddersfield man, who had 
come to Glasgow in the course of the last 
winter, and whose popularity in the hunt- 
ing-field was not as yet quite so great as 
it perhaps might have been. 

“ There’s been a mistake, I suppose,” 
said the master. 

“ Mistake, my lord ! Take a man’s 
’or.se off the rail at Stewarton, and him 
• booked for Kilmarnock, and ride him to a 


176 


TPIE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


standstill ! It’s no misiake at all. Its 
’orse-nobbling ; that’s whit it is. Is 
there any police here, sir?” This he 
said, turning round to a farmer. The far- 
mer didn’t deign any reply. “ Perhaps 
you’ll, tell me your name, sir? if you’ve 
got a name. No gen’leman ever took a 
gen’leman’s ’orse oil’ the rail like that.” 

“ Oh, Frank, do come away,” said Liz- 
zie, who was standing by.” 

“We shall be all right in two minutes,” 
said Frank. 

“No we shan’t,” said Mr. Nappie, 
“ ncr yet in two hours. I’ve asked what’s 
your name? ” 

“ My name is — Greystock.” 

“ Greystockings,” said Mr. Nappie 
more angrily than ever. “ I don’t believe 
in no such name. Where do you live? ” 
Then somebody whispered a word to him. 
“ Member of Parliament — is he? I don’t 

care a . A member of Parliament 

isn’t to steal my ’orse off the rail, and 
him booked to Kilmarnock. Now, my lord, 
what’d you do if you was served like 
that?” This was another appeal to the 
noble master. 

“ I should express a hope that my horse 
liad carried the gentleman as he liked to 
be carried,” said the master. 

“ And he has — carried me remarkably 
well,” said Frank ; whereupon there was 
a loud laugh among the crowd. 

“ I wish he’d broken the infernal neck 
0^ you, you scoundrel, you ; that’s what I 
do,” said Mr. Nappie. “ There was my 
man, and my ’orse, and myself, all booked 
from Glasgow to Kilmarnock ; and when 
I got there what did the guard say to me ? 
why, just that a man in a black coat had 
taken my horse off at Stewarton ; and 
now I’ve been driving all about the country 
in that gig there for three hours ! ’ ’ When 
Mr. Nappie had got so far as this in his 
explanation he was almost in teai-s. “ I’ll 
make ’iin pay, that I will. Take your 
hand off my horse’s bridle, sir. Is there 
any gentleman here as would like to give 
two hundred and eighty guineas for a 
horse, and then have him rid to a stand- 
still by a fellow like that down from Lon- 
don? If you’re in Parliament, why don’t 
you stick to Parliament? I don’t suppose 
he’s worth fifty pound this moment.” 

Frank had all the while been endeavor- 
ing to explain the accident ; how he had 
ordered a horse from Mr. MacFarlane, and 
the rest of it — as the reader will under- 


stand ; but quite in vain. Mr. Nappie in 
his wrath would not hear a word. But 
now that he spoke about money Frank 
thought that he saw an opening. “ Mr 
Nappie,” he said, “ I’ll buy the horse for 
the price you gave for him.” 

“I’ll see you — extremely well — first,” 
said Mr. Nappie. 

The horse had now been surrendered to 
^Mr. Nappie, and Frank suggested that he 
might as well return to Kilmarnock in the 
gig, and pay for the hire of it. But Mr. 
Nappie would not allow him to set a foot 
upon the gig. “ It’s my gig for the day,” 
said he, “and you don’t touch it. You 
shall foot it all the way back to Kilmar- 
nock, Mr. Greystockings.” But Mr. 
Nappie, in making this threat, forgot that 
there were gentlemen there with second 
horses. Frank was soon mounted on one 
belonging to Lord George, and Lord 
George’s servant, at the corner of the 
farm-yard, got into the buggy, and W'as 
driven back to Kilmarnock by the man 
who had accompanied poor Mr. Nappie in 
their morning’s hunt on wheels after the 
hounds. 

“ Upon my w'ord, I was very sorry,” 
said Frank as he rode back with his 
friends to Kilmarnock; “ and when I first 
really understood what had happened, I 
would have done anything. But what 
could I say ? It was impossible not to 
laugh, he was so unreasonable.” 

“ I should have put my whip over his 
shoulder,” said a stout farmer, meaning 
to be civil to Frank Greystock. 

“ Not after using it so often over his 
horse,” said Loi*d George. 

“ I never had to touch him once,” said 
Frank. 

“ And are you to have it all for noth- 
ing?” asked the thoughtful Lizzie. 

“ He’ll send a bill in, you’ll find,” said 
a bystander. 

“Not he,” said Lord George. “His 
grievance is worth more to him than his 
money.” 

No bill did come to Frank, and he got 
his mount for nothing. When Mr. Mac- 
Farlane was applied to, he declared that 
no letter ordering a horse had been deliv- 
ered in his establishment. From that day 
to this Mr. Nappie’s gray horse has had a 
great character in Ayrshire ; but all the 
world there says that its owner never rides 
him as Frank Greystock rode him that 
day. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

SIR GRIFFIN TAKES AN UNFAIR ADVANTAGE. 

E must return to the unfortunate 
Lucinda, whom we last saw strug- 
gling with her steed in the black waters 
of the brook which she attempted to jump. 
A couple of men were soon in’ after her, 
and she was rescued and brought back to 
the side from which she had been taken off 
without any great difficulty. She was 
neither hurt nor frightened, but she was 
wet through ; and for a while she was 
very unhappy, because it was not found 
quite easy to extricate her horse. During 
the ten minutes of her agony, while the 
poor brute was floundering in the mud, 
she had been quite disregardful of herself, 
and had almost seemed to think that Sir 
Griffin, who was with her, shouM go into 
the water after her steed. But there were 
already two men in the water and three 
on the bank, and Sir Griffin thought that 
duty required him to stay by, the young 
lady’s side. “ I don’t care a bit about 
myself,” said Lucinda, “but if anything 
can be done for poor Warrior?” Sir 
Griffin assured her that “ poor Warrior ” 
was receiving the very best attention ; and 
then he pressed upon her the dangerous 
condition in which she herself was stand- 
ing, quite wet through, covered as to her 
feet and legs with mud, growing colder 
and colder every minute. She touched 
her lips with a little brandy that some- 
body gave her, and then declared again that 
she cared for nothing but poor Warrior. 
At last poor Warrior was on his legs, with 
the water dripping from his black flanks, 
with his nose stained with mud, with one 
of his legs a little cut, and, alas ! with 
the saddle wet through. Nevertheless, 
there was nothing to be done better than 
to ride into Kilmarnock. The whole par- 
ty must return to Kilmarnock, and, per- 
haps, if they hurried, she might be able 
to get her clothes dry before they would 
start by the train. Sir Griffin, of course, 
accompanied her, and they two rode into 
the town alone. Mrs. Carbuncle did hear 
of the accident soon after the occurrence, 
but had not seen her niece ; nor when she 
12 


heard of it, could she have joined Lucin- 
da. 

If anything would make a girl talk to a 
man, such a ducking as Lucinda had had 
would do so. Such^ sudden events, when 
they come in the shape of misfortune, or 
the reverse, generally have the effect of 
abolishing shyness for the time. Let a 
girl be upset with you in a railway train, 
and she will talk like a Rosalind, though 
before the accident she was as mute as 
death. But with Lucinda Roanoke the 
accustomed change did not seem to take 
place. When Sir Griffin had placed her on 
her saddle, she would have trotted all the 
way into Kilmarnock without a word if 
he would have allowed her. But he, at 
least, understood that such a joint misfor- 
tune should create confidence, for he, too, 
had lost the run, and he did not intend to 
lose his opportunity also. “lam so glad 
that I was near you,” he said. 

“Oh,. thank you, yes; it would have 
been bad to be alone.” 

“ I jnean that I am glad that it was I,” 
said Sir Griffin. “ It’s very hard even to 
get a moment to speak to you.” They 
were now trotting along on the road, and 
there were still three miles before them. 

“I don’t know,” said she. “I’m 
alwaj^s with the other people.” 

“Just so.’’ And then he paused 
“ But I want to find you when you’re not 
with the other people. Perhaps, however, 
you don’t like me.” 

As he paused for a reply, she felt her 
self bound to say something. “Oh, yes, 
I do,” she said, “ as well as anybody 
else.” 

“ And is that all ? ” 

“ I suppose so.” 

After that he rode on for the best part 
of another mile before he spoke to her 
again. He had made up his mind that he 
would do it. He hardly knew why it \vas 
that he wanted her. He had not deter- 
mined tliat he was desirous of the charms 
or comfort of domestic life. He had not 
even thought where he would live were he 
married. He had not suggested to him- 
self that Lucinda was a desirable com- 
panion, that her temper would suit his, 



178 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


that her ways and his were sympathetic, 
or that she would be a good mother to the 
future Sir Griffin Tewett. He had seen 
that she was a very handsome girl , and 
therefore he had thought that he would like 
to possess her. Had she fallen like a ripe 
})lum into his mouth, or shown herself 
ready so to fall, he would probably have 
closed his lips and backed out of the af- 
fair. But the difficulty no doubt added 
something to the desire. “I had hoped,” 
he said, “ that after knowing each other 
so long there might have been more than 
that.” 

She was again driven to speak because 
he paused. “ I don’t know that that 
makes much difference.” 

“ Miss Roanoke, you can’t but under- 
stand what I mean.” 

“ I’m sure I don’t,” said she. 

“ Then I’ll speak plainer.” 

“ Not now. Sir Griffin, because I’m so 
wot.” 

“ You can listen to me even if you will 
not answer me. I am sure that you know 
that I love you better than all the world. 
VYill you be mine? ” Then he moved on 
a little forward so that he might look back 
into her face. “ Will you allow me to 
think of you as my future wife? ” 

Miss Roanoke was able to ride at a "stone 
wall or at a river, and to ride at either the 
second time when her horse balked the 
first. Her heart was big enough to en- 
able her to give Sir Griffin an answer. 
Perhaps it was that, in regard to the river 
and the stone wall, she knew what she 
wanted ; but that, as to Sir Griffin, she 
did not. “ I don’t think this is a proper 
time to ask,” she said. 

“ Why not? ” 

“ Because I am wet through and cold. 
It is taking an unfair advantage.” 

“ I didn’t mean to take any unfair ad- 
vantage,” said Sir Griffin scowling; “I 
thought we were alone ” 

“Oh, Sir Griffin, I am so tired ! ” As 
they were now entering Kilmarnock, it 
was quite clear that he could press her no 
further. They clattered up, therefore, to 
the hotel, and he busied himself in get- 
ting a bedroom fire lighted, and in obtain- 
ing the services of the landlady. A cup 
of tea was ordered and toast, and in two 
minutes Lucinda Roanoke was relieved 
from the presence of the baronet. “ It’s 
a kind of thing a fellow doesn’t quite un- 
derstand,” said Sir Griffin to himself. “ Of 


course she means it, and why the devil 
can’t she say so?” He had no idea of 
giving up the chase, but he thought that 
perhaps he would take it out of her when 
she became Lady Tewett. 

They were an hour at the inn before 
Mrs. Carbuncle and Lady Eustace arrived, 
and during that hour Sir Griffin did not see 
Miss Roanoke. For this there was, of 
course, ample reason. Under the custody 
of the landlady. Miss Roanoke was being 
made dry and clean, and was by no means 
in a condition to receive a lover’s vows. 
The ])aronet sent up half a dozen messages 
as he sauntered about the yard of the inn, 
but he got no message in return. Lucinda, 
as she sat drinking her tea and drying her 
clothes, did no doubt think about him, 
but she thought about him as little as she 
could. Of course he would come again, 
and she could make up her mind then. It 
was no doubt necessary that she should do 
something. Her fortune, such as it was, 
would soon be spent in the adventure of 
finding a husband. She also had her ideas 
about love, and had enough of sincerity 
about her to love a man thoroughly; but 
it had seemed to her that all the men who 
came near her were men whom she could 
not fail to dislike. She was hurried here 
and hurried there, and knew nothing of 
real social intimacies. As she told her 
aunt, in her wickedness, she would almost 
have preferred a shoemaker, if she could 
have become acquainted with a shoemaker 
in a manner that should be unforced and 
genuine. There was a savageness of an- 
tipathy in her to the mode of life which 
her circumstances had produced for her. 
It was that very savagenass which made 
her ride so hard, and Avhich forbade her to 
smile and be pleasant to people whom she 
could not like. And yet she knew that 
something must be done. She could not 
afford to wait as otl>er girls might do. 
Why not Sir Griffin as well as any other 
fool? It may be doubted whether she 
knew how obstinate, how hard, how cruel 
to a woman a fool can be. 

Her stockings had been washed and 
dried, and her boots and trousei-s were 
nearly dry, when Mrs. Carbuncle, followed 
by Lizzie, rushed into the room. “Oh, 
my darling, how are you ? ” said the aunt, 
seizing her niece in her arms. 

“ I’m only dirty now,” said Lucinda. 

“ We’ve got off the biggest of the 
muck, my lady,” said the landlady. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


179 


“Oh, Miss Roanoke,” said Lizzie, “ 1 
hope you don’t think I behaved badly in 
going on.” 

“ Everybody always goes on, of course,” 
said Lucinda. 

“ I did 90 pray Lord George to let me 
try and jump back to you. . We were over, 
you know, before it happened. But he 
said it was quite impossible. We did 
wait till we saw you were out.” 

“ It didn’t signify at all, Lady Eus- 
tace.” 

“And I was so sorry when I went 
through the wall at the corner of the wood 
before j^ou. But I was so excited I hardly 
knew what I was doing.” Lucinda, who 
was quite used to these affairs In the hunt- 
ing-field, simply nodded her acceptance of 
this apology. “ But it was a glorious run , 
wasn’t it ? ” 

“ Pretty well,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ Oh, it was glorious ; but then I got 
over the river. And, oh, if you had been 
there afterwards. There was such an ad- 
venture between a man in a gig and my 
cousin Frank.” Then they all went to 
the train, and were carried home to Por- 
tray. 


CHAPTER XL. 

YOU ARE NOT ANGRY 

On their journey back to Portray, the 
ladies were almost too tired for talking, 
and Sir Griffin was sulky. Sir Griffin had 
as yet heard nothing about Greystock’s 
adventure, and did not care to be told. 
But w’hen once they were at the castle, 
and had taken warm baths and glasses of 
sherry, and got themselves dressed and 
had come down to dinner, they were all 
very happy. To Lizzie it had certainly 
been the most triumphant day of her life. 
Her marriage with Sir Florian had been 
triumphant, but that was only a step to 
something good that was to come after. 
She then had at her own disposal her little 
wits and her prettiness, and a world be- 
fore her in which, as it then seemed to 
her, there was a deal of pleasure if she 
could only reach it. Up to this period of 
her career she had hardly reached any 
pleasure ; but this day had been very pleas- 
ant. Lord George de Bruce Carruthers had 
in truth been her Corsair, and she had 
found the thing which she liked to do, 
and would soon know how to do. How 
glorious it was to jump over that black, 
yawning stream, and then to see Lucinda 


fall into it! And she could remember 
every jump, and her feeling of ecstasy as 
she landed on the right side. And she 
had by heart every kind word that Lord 
George had said to her — and she loved the 
sweet, pleasant. Corsair-like intimacy that 
had sprung up between them. She won- 
dered whether Frank was at all jealous. 
It wouldn’t be amiss that he should be a 
little jealous. And then somebody had 
brought home in his pocket the fox’s 
brush, which the master of the hounds 
had told the huntsman to give her. It 
was all delightful ; and so much more de- 
lightful because Mrs. Carbuncle had not 
gone quite so well as she liked to go, and 
because Lucinda had fallen into the wa- 
ter. 

They did not dine till past eight, and 
the ladies and gentlemen all left the room 
together. Coffee and liqueurs' were to be 
brought into the drawing-room, and they 
were all to be intimate, comfortable, and 
at their ease ; all except Sir Griffin Tewett, 
who was still very sulky. “ Did he say 
anything ?” Mrs. Carbuncle had asked. 
“Yes,” “Well.” “ He proposed ; but 
of course I could not answer him when I 
was wet through.” There had been but 
a moment, and in that moment this was 
all that Lucinda would say. 

“ Now I don’t mean to stir again,” said 
Lizzie, throwing herself into a corner of a 
sofa, “ till somebody carries me to bed. 
I never was so tired in all my life.” She 
was tired, but there is a fatigue which Ls 
delightful as long as all the surroundings 
are pleasant and comfortable. 

“ I didn’t call it a very hard day,” said 
Airs. Carbuncle. 

“ You only killed one fox,” .said Air. 
Alealyus, pretending a delightfully cleri- 
cal ignorance, “ and on Alonday you killed 
four. Why should -you be tired ? ” 

“ I suppose it was nearly twenty miles,” 
said Frank, who was also ignorant. 

“ About ten, perhaps,” said Lord 
George. “ It was an hour and forty min- 
utes, and there was a good bit of slow 
hunting after we had come back over the 
river.” 

“ I’m sure it was thirty,” said Lizzie, 
forgetting her fatigue in her energy. 

“ Ten is always better than twenty,” 
said Lord George, “ and five generally 
better than ten.” 

“ It was just whatever is best,” said 
Lizzie. “I know Frank’s friend, Air. 


180 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Nappie, said it was twenty. By-the-by, 
oughtn’t we to have- asked Mr. Nappie 
home to dinner ? ” 

“ I thought so,” said Frank ; “ but I 
couldn’t take the liberty myself.” 

“I really think poor Mr. Nappie was 
very badly used,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ Of course he was,” said Lord George ; 
“ no man ever worse since hunting was 
invented. He was entitled to a dozen 
dinners and no end of patronage ; but 
you see he took it out in calling your 
cousin Mr. Greystockings.” 

“ I felt that blow,” said Frank.’ 

“I shall always call you Cousin Grey- 
stockings,” said Lizzie. 

“ It was hard,” continued Lord George, 
‘ ‘ and I understood it all so well when he 
got into a mess in his wratk about book- 
ing the horse to Kilmarnock. If the 
horse had been on the roadside, he or his 
men could have protected him. He is put 
under the protection of a whole railway 
company, and the company gives him up 
to the first fellow that comes and asks for 
him.” 

“It was cruel,” said Frank. 

“If it had happened to me, I should 
have been very angry,” said Mrs. Car- 
buncle. 

“ But Frank wouldn’t have had a horse 
at all,” said Lizzie, “ unless he had taken 
Mr. Nappie ’s.” 

Lord George still continued his plea for 
Mr. Nappie. “There’s something in 
that certainly; but, still, I agree with 
Mrs. Carbuncle. If it had happened to 
me, I should— just have committed mur- 
der and suicide. I can’t conceive anything 
so terrible. It’s all very well for your 
noble master to talk of being civil, and 
hoping that the horse had carried him well, 
and all that. There are circumstances 
in which a man can’t be civil. And then 
everybody laughed at him ! It’s the way 
of the world. The lower you fall, the 
more you’re kicked.” 

“What can 1 do for him?” asked 
Frank. 

“ Put him down at your club and order 
thirty dozen of gray shirtings from Nap- 
pie & Co., without naming the price.” 

“ He’d send you gray stockings in- 
stead,” said Lizzie. 

But though Lizzie was in heaven, it be- 
hooved her to be careful. The Corsair 
was a very fine specimen of the Corsair 
breed, about the best Corsair she had 


ever seen, and had been devoted to her for 
the day. But these Corsairs are known 
to be dangerous, and it would not be wise 
that she should sacrifice any future pros- 
pect of importance on behalf of a feeling, 
which, no doubt, was founded on poetry, 
but which might too probably have no 
possible beneficial result. As far as she 
knew, the Corsair had not even an island 
of his own in the ^gean Sea. And, if 
he had, might not the island too probably 
have a Medora or two of its own ? In a 
ride across the country the Corsair was all 
that a Corsair should be ; but knowing, 
as she did, but very little of the Corsair, 
she could not afford to throw over her 
cousin for his sake. As she was leaving 
the drawing-room she managed to say 
one word to her cousin. “ You were not 
angry with me because I got Lord George 
to ride with me instead of you? ” 

“ Angry with you? ” 

“ I knew I should only be a hindrance 
to you.” 

“ It was a matter of course. He knows 
all about it, and I know nothing. I am 
very glad that you liked it so much.’* 

“ I did like it ; and so did you. I was 
so glad you got that poor man’s horse. 
You were not angry then?” They had 
now passed across the hall, and were on 
the bottom stair. 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ And you are not angry for what hap- 
pened before ? ” She did not look into his 
face as she asked this question, but stood 
with her eyes fixed on the stair-carpet, 

“ Indeed no.” 

“ Good night, Frank.” 

“ Good night, Lizzie.” Then she went, 
and he returned to a room below which 
had been prepared for purposes of tobacco 
and soda-water and brandy. 

“ Why, Grifl’, you’re rather out of sorts 
to-night,” said Lord George to his friend, 
before Frank had joined them. 

“ So would you be out of sorts if you’d 
lost your run and had to pick a young 
woman out of the water. 1 don’t like 
young women when they’re damp and 
smell of mud.” 

“ You mean to marry her, I suppose.” 

“ How would you like me to ask you 
questions? Do you mean to marry the 
widow? And, if you do, what’ll Mrs. 
Carbuncle say? And if you don’t, what 
do you mean to do ; and all the rest of 
it?” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


18J 


“ As for marrjing the widow, I should 
like to know the facts first. As to Mrs. 
C., she wouldn’t object in the least. I 
generally have my horses so bitted that 
they can’t very well object. And as to 
the other question, I mean to stay here for 
the next fortnight, and I advise you to 
make it square with Miss Roanoke. Here’s 
my lady’s cousin ; for a man who doesn’t 
ride often, he went very well to-day.” 

“ I wonder if he’d take a twenty-pound 
note if I sent it to him,” said Frank, 
when they broke up for the night. “I 
don’t like the idea of riding such a fel- 
low’s horse for nothing.” 

“ He’ll bring an action against the rail- 
way, and then you can offer to pay if you 
like.” Mr. Nappie did bring an action 
against the railway, claiming exorbitant 
damages ; but with what result, we need 
not trouble ourselves to inquire. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

LIKEWISE THE BEARS IN COUPLES AGREE 

Frank Greystock staid till the follow- 
ing Monday at Portray, but could not be 
induced to hunt on the Saturday, on which 
day the other sporting men and women 
went to the meet. He could not, he said, 
trust to that traitor Macfarlane, and he 
feared that his friend Mr. Nappie would 
not give him another mount on the gray 
horse. Lizzie offered him one of her two 
darlings, an offer which he, of course, 
refused ; and Lord George also proposed 
to put him up. But Frank averred that 
he had ridden his hunt for that season, 
and would not jeopardize the laurels he 
had gained. “And moreover,” said he, 
“ I should not dare to meet Mr. Nappie in 
the field.” So he remained at the castle 
and took a wmlk with Mr. Mealyus. Mr. 
^Mealyus asked a good many questions 
about Portray, and exhibited the warmest 
sympathy with Lizzie’s widowed condition. 
He called her a “ sweet, gay, unsophisti- 
cated, light-hearted young thing.” “ She 
is very j’-oung,” replied her cousin. 
“ Yes,” he continued, in answer to further 
questions ; ‘ ‘ Portray is certainly very 
nice. I don’t know what the income is. 
Well, yes. I should think it is over a 
thousand. Eight ! No, I never heard it 
said that it was as much as that.” When 
Mr. Mealyus put it down in his mind 
RvS five, he was not void of acuteness, as 


very little information had been given to 
him. 

There was a joke throughout the castle 
that JMr. Mealyus had fallen in love with 
Miss Macnulty. They had been a great 
deal together on those hunting days ; and 
Miss Macnulty was unusually enthusiastic 
in praise of his manner and conversation. 
To her, also, had been addressed questioas 
as to Portray and its income, all of wdiich 
she had answered to the best of her abil- 
ity ; not intending to betray any secret, 
for she had no secret to betray ; but giv- 
ing ordinary information on that common- 
est of all subjects, our friends’ incomes. 
Then there had risen a question whether 
there was a vacancy for such promotion 
to Miss Macnulty. Mrs. Carbuncle had 
certainly heard that there was a jMrs. 
Emilius. Lucinda was sure that there 
was not, an assurance which might have 
been derived from a certain eagerness in 
the reverend gentleman’s demeanor to 
herself on a former occasion. To Lizzie, 
who at present was very good-natured, the 
idea of Miss Macnulty having a lover, 
whether he were a married man or not, 
was very delightful. “I’m sure I don’t 
know what you mean,” said Miss Mac- 
nulty. “I don’t suppose Mr. Emilius 
had any of the kind.” Upon the whole, 
however. Miss Macnulty liked it. 

On the Saturday nothing especial hap- 
pened. Mr. Nappie was out on his gray 
horse, and condescended to a little con- 
versation with Lord George. He wouldn’t 
have minded, he said, if Mr. Greystock 
had come forward ; but he did think Mr. 
Greystock hadn’t come forward as he 
ought to have done. Lord George pro- 
fessed that he had observed the same 
thing; but then, as he whispered into 
Mr. Nappie’s ear, Mr. Greystock was 
particularly known as a bashful man. 
“ He didn’t ride my ’orse anyway bash- 
ful,” said Mr. Nappie — all of which was 
told at dinner in the evening amidst a 
great deal of laughter. There had been 
nothing special in the way of sport, and 
Lizzie’s enthusiasm for hunting, though 
still high, had gone down a few degrees 
below fever heat. Lord George had again 
coached her ; but there had been no 
great need for coaching, no losing of her 
breath, no cutting down of Lucinda, no 
river, no big wall — nothing, in short, very 
fast. They had been much in a big wood ; 
but Lizzie, in giving an account of tho 


182 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


day to her cousin, bad acl? nowledged that 
she had not quite understood what they 
were doing at any time. “ It was a 
blowing of horns and a galloping up and 
down all the day,” she said ; “ and then 
Morgan got cross again and scolded all 
the people. , But there was one nice paling, 
and Dandy flew over it beautifully. Two 
men tumbled down, and one of them was 
a good deal hurt. It was very jolly — but 
not at all like Wednesday.” 

Nor had it been like Wednesday to Lu- 
cinda Roanoke, who did not fall into the 
water, and who did accept Sir Grifl&n 
when he again proposed to her in Sarkie 
wood. A great deal had been said to Lu- 
cinda on the Thursday and the Friday by 
Mrs. Carbuncle — which had not been 
taken at all in good part by Lucinda. On 
those days Lucinda kept as much as she 
could out of Sir Griffin’s way, and almost 
snapped at the baronet when he spoke to 
her. Sir Griffin swore to himself that he 
wasn’t going to bl treated that way. 
He’d have her, by George ! There are 
men in whose love a good deal of hatred 
is mixed — who love as the huntsman loves 
the fox, towards the killing of which he 
intends to use all his energies and in- 
tellects. Mrs. Carbuncle, who did not 
quite understand the sort of persistency 
by which a Sir Griffin can be possessed, 
feared greatly that Lucinda was about to 
lose her prize, and spoke out accordingly. 
“Will you, then, just have the kindness 
to tell me what it is you propose to your- 
self?” asked Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ I don’t propose anything.” 

“ And where will you go when your 
money’s done?” 

“Just where I am going now,” said 
Lucinda. By which it may be feared that 
she indicated a place to which she should 
not on such an occasion have made an 
allusion. 

“You don’t like anybody else?” sug- 
gested Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ I don’t like anybody or anything,” 
said Lucinda. 

“Yes you do — you like horses to ride, 
and dresses to wear.” 

“ No I don't. I like hunting because, 
perl laps, some day I may break my neck. 
It’s no use your looking like that. Aunt 
Jane. I know what it all means. If I 
could break my neck it would be the best 
thing for me.” 

“ You’ll break my heart, Lucinda.” 


“ Mine’s broken long ago.” 

“ If j^ou’ll accept Sir Griffin, and just 
get a home round yourself, you’ll find that 
everything will be happy. It all comes 
from the dreadful uncertainty. Do you 
think I have suffered nothing? Carbuncle 
is always threatening that he’ll go back 
to New York ; and as for Lord George, he 
treats me that way I’m sometimes afraid 
to show my face.” 

“ Why should you care for Lord 
George?” 

“ It’s all very well to say, why should I 
care for him. I don’t care for him, only 
one doesn’t want to quarrel with one’s 
friends. Carbuncle says he owes him 
money.” 

“ I don’t believe it,” said Lucinda. 

“ And he says Carbuncle owes him, 
money.” 

“ I do believe that,” said Lucinda. 

“ Between it all, I don’t know which 
way to be turning. And now, when 
there's this great opening for you, you 
won’t know your own mind'.” 

“ I know my mind well enough.” 

“ I tell you you’ll never have such an- 
other chance. Good looks isn’t every- 
thing. You’ve never a word to say to 
anybody ; and when a man does come 
near you, j^ou’re as savage and cross as a 
bear.” 

“ Go on. Aunt Jane.” 

“ What with your hatings and dislik- 
ings, one would suppose you didn’t think 
God Almighty made men at all.” 

“ He made some of ’em very bad,” said 
Lucinda. “ As for some others, they’re 
only half made. What can Sir Griffin do, 
do you suppose? ” 

. “ He’s a gentleman.” 

“ Then if I were a man, I should wish 
not to be a gentleman ; that’s all. I’d a 
deal sooner marry a man like that hunts- 
man, who has something to do and knows 
how to do it.” Again she said, “ Don't 
worry any more. Aunt Jane. It doesn’t 
do any good. It seems to me that to 
make myself Sir Griffin’s wife would be 
impossible ; but I’m sure your talking 
won’t do it.” Then her aunt left her, 
and, having met Lord George, at his bid- 
ding went and made civil speeches to Liz- 
zie Eustace. 

That was on the Friday afternoon. On 
the Saturday afternoon Sir Griffin, biding 
his time, found himself, in a ride with Lu- 
cinda, sufficiently far from other horsemen 


THE EUSTACE DIA:M0NDS. 


for his purpose. He ^vasn’t going to stand 
an}^ more nonsense. He was entitled to an 
answer, and he knew that he was entitled, 
by his rank, and position, to a favorable 
answer. Here was a girl who, as far as 
he knew, was without a shilling, of whose 
birth and parentage nobody knew any- 
thing, who had nothing but her beauty 
to recommend her — nothing but that and 
a certain capacity for carrying herself in 
the world as he thought ladies should 
carry themselves ; and she was to give 
herself airs with him, and expect him to 
propose to her half a dozen times ! By 
George I he had a very good mind to go 
away and let her find out her mistake. 
And he would have done so— only that h.e 
was a man who always liked to have all 
that he wanted. It was intolerable to 
him that anybody should refuse him any- 
thing. “ML^s Roanoke,” he said; and 
then he paused. 

“Sir Griffin,” said Lucinda, bowing 
her head. 

“ Perhaps you will condescend to re- 
member what I had the honor of saying 
to you as we rode into Kilmarnock last 
Wednesday.” 

“ 1 had just been dragged out of a river. 
Sir Griffin, and I don’t think any girl 
ought to be asked to remember what was 
said to her in that condition.” 

“ If I say it again noAV, will you re- 
member?” 

“ I cannot promise. Sir Griffin.” 

“ Will you give me an answer? ” 

“ That must depend.” 

“ Come, I will have an answer. When 
a man tells a lady that he admires her, 
and asks her to be his wife, he has a right 
to an answer. Don’t you think that in 
such circumstances a man has a right to 
expect an answer ?” 

Lucinda hesitated for a moment, and he 
was beginning again to remonstrate impa- 
tiently, when she altered her tone, and re- 
plied to him seriously : “ In such circum- 
stances a gentleman has a right to expect 
an answer.” 

“ Then give me one. I admire you 
above all the world, and I ask you to be 
my wife. I’m quite in earnest.” 

“I know that you are in earnest. Sir 
Griffin. I would do neither you nor my- 
self the wrong of supposing that it could 
be otherwise.” 

“ Very well then. Will you accept the 
offer that I make you ? ” 


irs 

Again she paused. “ You have a right 
to an answer, of course ; but it may be so 
difficult to give it. It seems to me that 
you have hardly realized how serious a 
question it is.” 

“ Haven’t I though ? By George, it Is 
serious.” 

“ Will it not be better for you to think 
it over again ? ” 

He now hesitated for a moment. Per- 
haps it might be better. Should she take 
him at his word there would be no going 
back from it. But Lord George knew 
that he had proposed before. Lord George 
had learned this from ]Mrs. Carbuncle, 
and had shown that he knew it. And 
then, too, he had made up his mind about 
it. He wanted her, and he meant to have 
her. “ It requires no more thinking 
with me, Lucinda. I’m not a man who 
does things without thinking ; and when 
I have thought I don’t want to think 
again. There’s my hand — will you have 
it?” 

“I will,” said Lucinda, putting lier 
hand into his. He no sooner felt her as- 
surance than his mind misgave him tliat 
he had been precipitate, that he had been 
rash, and that she had taken advantage 
of him. After all, how many things are 
there in the world more precious than a 
handsome girl. And she had never told 
him that she loved him. 

“ I suppose you love me? ” he asked. 

“ Il’sh ; here they all are.” The hand 
was withdrawn, but not before both Mrs. 
Carbuncle and Lady Eustace had seen it. 

Mrs. Carbuncle, in her great anxiety, 
bided her time, keeping close to her 
niece. Perhaps she felt that if the two 
were engaged, it might be well to keep 
the lovers separated for awhile, lest they 
should quarrel before the engagement 
should have been so confirmed by the au- 
thority of friends as to be beyond the 
power of easy annihilation. Lucinda rode 
quite demurely with the crowd. Sir Grif- 
fin remained near her, but without .«peak- 
ing. Lizzie whispered to Lord George 
that there had been a proposal. Mrs. 
Carbuncle sat in stately dignity on her 
horse, as though there were nothing 
which at that moment especially engaged 
her attention. An hour almost had pass- 
ed before she was able to ask the impor- 
tant question, “Well— what have you said 
to him?” 

“ Oh ; just what j’ou would have me.” 


184 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ You have accepted him? ” 

“ I suppose I was obliged. At any 
rate I did. You shall know one thing, 
Aunt Jane, at any rate, and I hope it 
will make you comfortable. I hate a 
good many people ; but of all the people 
in the world I hate Sir Griffin Tewett the 
worst.” 

“ Nonsense, Lucinda.” 

“ It shall be nonsense, if you please ; 
but it’s true. I shall have to lie to him, 
but there shall be no lying to you, how- 
ever much you may wish it. I hate 
him! ” 

This was very grim, but Mrs. Carbun- 
cle quite understood that to persons situ 
ated in great difficulty things might be 
grim. A certain amount of grimness 
must be endured. And she knew, too, 
that Lucinda was not a girl to be driven 
without showing something of an intract- 
able spirit in harness. Mrs. Carbuncle 
had undertaken the driving of Lucinda, 
and had been not altogether unsuccessful. 
The thing so necessary to be done was 
now effected. Her niece was engaged to 
a man with a title, to a man reported to 
have a fortune, to a man of family, and a 
man of the world. Now that the engage- 
ment was made, the girl could not go 
back from it, and it was for Mrs. Carbun- 
cle to see that neither should Sir Griffin 
go back. Her first steps must be taken 
at once. The engagement should be 
made known to all the party, and should 
be recognized by some word spoken be- 
tween herself and the lover. The word 
between herself and the lover must be the 
first thing. She herself, personally, was 
not very fond of Sir Griffin ; but on such 
an occasion as this she could smile and 
endure the bear. Sir Griffin was a bear — 
but so also was Lucinda. “ The rabbits 
and hares All go in pairs ; And likewise 
the bears In couples agree.” Mrs. Car- 
buncle consoled herself with the song, 
and assured herself that it would all come 
right. No doubt the she-bears were not 
as civil to the he-bears as the turtle doves 
are to each other. It was perhaps her 
misfortune that her niece was not a turtle 
dove ; but, such as she was, the best had 
been done for her. “ Dear Sir Griffin,” 
she said on the first available opportunity, 
not caring much for the crowd, and al- 
most desirous that her very words should 
be overheard, “ my darling girl has made 
me so happy by what she has told me.” 


“ She hasn’t lost any time,” said Sir 
Griffin. 

“ Of course she would lose no time. 
She is the same to me as a daughter. I 
have no child of my own, and she is every- 
thing to me. May I tell you that you are 
the luckiest man in Europe? ” 

“ It isn’t every girl that would suit me, 
Mrs. Carbuncle.” 

• “ I am sure of that. I have noticed 

how particular you are. I won’t say a 
word of Lucinda’s beauty ; men are bet- 
ter judges of that than women ; but for 
high chivalrous spirit, for true principle 
and nobility, and what I call downright 
worth, I don’t think you will easily find her 
superior. And she is as true as steel.” 

“ And about as hard, I was beginning 
to think.” 

“ A girl like that. Sir Griffin, does not 
give herself away easily. You will nut 
like her the less for that now that you 
are the possessor. She is very young, 
and has known my wish that she should 
not engage herself to any one quite yet. 
But as it is, I cannot regret anything.” 

“ I dare say not,” said Sir Griffin. 

Tliat the man was a bear was a matter 
of course, and bears probably do not 
themselves know how bearish they are. 
Sir Griffin, no doubt, was unaware of the 
extent of his own rudeness. And his 
rudeness mattered but little to Mrs. Car- 
buncle, so long as he acknowledged the 
engagement. She had not expected a 
lover’s raptures from the one more than 
from the other. And was not there enough 
in the engagement to satisfy her? She 
allowed, therefore, no cloud to cross her 
brow as she rode up alongside of Lord 
George. “Sir Griffin has proposed, and 
she has accepted him,” she said in a 
whisper. She was not now desirous that 
any one should hear her but he to whom 
she spoke. 

“ Of course she has,” said Lord George. 

“ I don’t know about that, George. 
Sometimes I thought she would, and 
sometimes that she wouldn’t. You have 
never understood Lucinda.” 

“ I hope Griff will understand her, that’s 
all. And now that the thing is settled, 
you’ll not trouble me about it any more. 
Their woes be on their own head. If they 
come to' blows Lucinda ■will thrash him, I 
don’t doubt. But while it’s simply a 
matter of temper and words, she won’t 
find Tewett so easj^-going as he looks. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


185 


“I believe they’ll do very well to- 
gether.” 

“ Perhaps they will. There’s no sa}^- 
iug who may do well together. You and 
Carbuncle get on au marvel. When is it 
to be?” 

“ Of course nothing is settled yet.” 

“Don’t be too hard about settlements, 
or, maybe, he’ll find a way of wriggling 
out. When a girl without a shilling asks 
very much, the world supports a man for 
breaking his engagement. Let her pre- 
tend to be indiflerent about it ; that will 
be the way to keep him firm.” 

“ What is his income, George? ” 

‘ 1 haven’t an idea. There never was 
a closer man about money. I believe he 
must have the bulk of the Tewett prop- 
erty some day. He can’t spend above a 
couple of thousand now.” 

“ He’s not in debt, is Jie? ” 

“ He owes me a little money — twelve 
hundred or so— and 1 mean to have it. I 
suppose he is in debt, but not much, 1 
think. He makes stupid bets, and the 
devil won’t break him of it.” 

“ Lucinda has two or three thousand 
imunds, you know.” 

“ That’s a flea-bite. Let her keep it. 
You’re in for it now, and you’d better say 
nothing about money, ^e has a decent 
solicitor, and let him arrange about the 
settlements. And look here, Jane ; get 
it done as soon as you can.” 

“ You’ll help me? ” 

“ If you don’t bother me, I will.” 

On their way home Mrs. Carbuncle was 
able to tell Lady Eustace. “You know 
what has occurred ? ” 

“ Oh, dear, yes,” said Lizzie laughing. 

“ Has Lucinda told you ? ” 

“ Do you think I’ve got no eyes? Of 
course it was going to be. I knew that 
from the very moment Sir Griffin reached 
Portray. I am so glad that Portray has 
been useful.” 

“Oh, so useful, dear Lady Eustace! 
Not but what it must have come olf any- 
where, for there never was a man so 
much in love as Sir Griffin. The difficulty 
has been with Lucinda.” 

“ She likes him, I suppose ? ” 

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Car- 
buncle with energy. 

“Not that girls ever really care about 
men now. They’ve got to be married, and 
they make the best of it. She’s very hand- 
some, and I suppose he’s pretty well off.” 


“ He will be very rich indeed. And 
they say he’s such an excellent young 
man when you know him.” 

“ I dare say most young men are excel 
lent when you come to know them. 
What does Lord George say ? ” 

“He’s in raptures. He is very much 
attached to Lucinda, j’^ou know.” And 
so that affair was managed. They hadn’t 
been home a quarter of an hour before 
Frank Grey stock was told. He asked 
Mrs. Carbuncle about the sport, and then 
she whispered to him, “ An engagement 
has been made.” 

“ Sir Griffin ? ” suggested Frank. Mrs. 
Carbuncle smiled and nodded her head. 
It was well that everybody should know 
it. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

SUNDAY MORNING. 

“ So, miss, you’ve took him,” said the 
joint Abigail of the Carbuncle establish- 
ment that evening to the younger of her 
two mistresses. Mrs. Carbuncle had re- 
solved that the thing should be quite pub- 
lic. “Just remember this,” replied Lu- 
cinda, “ I don’t want to have a word said 
to me on the subject.” “ Only just to 
wish you joy, miss.” Lucinda turned 
round with a flash of anger at the girl. 
“ I don’t want your wishing. That’ll do. 
I can manage by myself. I won’t have 
you come near me if you can’t hold your 
tongue when you’re told.” “ I can hold 
my tongue as well as anybody,” said the 
Abigail with a toss of her head. 

This happened after the party had sep- 
arated for the evening. At dinner Sir 
Griffin had, of course, given Lucinda his 
arm ; but so he had always done since 
they had been at Portray. Lucinda hard- 
ly opened her mouth at table, and had re- 
treated to bed with a headache when the 
men, who on that day lingered a few min- 
utes after the ladies, went into the draw- 
ing-room. This Sir Griffin felt to be al- 
most an affront, as there was a certain 
process of fareAvell for the night which he 
had anticipated. If she was going to 
treat him like that, he would cut up 
rough, and she should know it. “Well, 
Griff, so it’s all settled,” said Lord George 
in the smoking-room. Frank Greystock 
was there, and Sir Griffin did not like it. 

“ What do you mean by settled? 1 
don’t know that anything is settled.” 


186 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ I thought it was. 'Weren’t you told 
so? ” And Lord George turned to Grey- 
stock. 

“ I thought I heard a hint,” said 
Frank. 

“ I’m if I ever knew such people in 

my life,” said Sir Griffin. “ They don’t 
seem to have an idea that a man’s own 
rffairs may be private.” 

“ Sush an affair as that never is pri- 
vate,” said Lord George. “ The women 
take care of that. You don’t suppose 
they’re going to run down their game, 
and let nobody know it.’’ 

“ If they take me for game ” 

“ Of course you’re game. Every man’s 
game. Only some men are such bad 
game that they ain’t worth following. 
Take it easy. Griff ; you’re caught.” 

“ No, I ain’t.” 

“ And enjoy the satisfaction of knowing 
that she’s about the handsomest girl out. 
As for me, I’d sooner have the widow. I 
Ijegyour pardon, Mr. Greystock.” Frank 
merely bowed. “ Simply, I mean, be- 
cause she rides about two stone lighter. 
It’ll cost you something to mount Lady 
Tewett.” 

“I don’t mean that she shall hunt,” 
said Sir Griffin. It will be seen, there- 
fore, that the baronet made no real at- 
tempt to deny his engagement. 

On the following day, which was Sun- 
day, Sir Griffin, having ascertained that 
Miss Roanoke did not intend to go to 
church, staid at home also. Mr. Emi- 
lius had been engaged to preach at the 
nearest Episcopal place of woi*ship, and 
the remainder of the party all went to 
hear him. Lizzie was very particular 
about her Bible and Prayer-book, and 
Miss Macnulty wore a brighter ribbon on 
her bonnet than she had ever been known 
to carry before. Lucinda, when she had 
heard of the arrangement had protested 
to her aunt that she would not go down 
stairs till they had all returned ; but Mrs, 
Carbuncle, fearing the anger of Sir Griffin, 
doubting whether in his anger he might 
not escape them altogether, said a word 
or two which even Lucinda found to be 
rational. “ As j^ou have accepted him, 
you shouldn’t avoid him, my dear. That 
is only making things worse for the fu- 
ture. And then it’s cowardly, is it not ? ” 
No word that could have been spoken was 
more likely to be efficacious. At any rate, 
she would not be cowardly. 


As soon then as the wheels of the car- 
riage were no longer heard grating upon 
the road, Lucinda, who had been very 
careful in her dress, so careful as to avoid 
all appearance of care, with slow majestic 
step descended to a drawing-room which 
they were accustomed to use on mornings. 
It was probable that Sir Griffiu was smok- 
ing somewhere about the grounds, but it 
could not be her duty to go after him out 
of doors. She would remain there, and, 
if he cho?e, he might come to her. There 
could be no ground of complaint on his 
side if she allowed herself to be found in 
one of the ordinary sitting-rooms of the 
house. In about half an hour he saun- 
tered upon the terrace, and flattened his 
nose against the window. She bowed 
and smiled to him, hating herself for smil- 
ing. It was perhaps the first time that 
she had endeavored to put on a pleasant 
face wherewithal to greet him. He said 
nothing then, but passed round the house 
threw away the end of his cigar, and en- 
tered the room. Whatever happened, she 
would not be a coward. The thing had 
to be done. Seeing that she had accepted 
him on the previous day, had not run 
away in the night or taken poison, and 
had come down to undergo the interview, 
she would undergo it at least with courage. 
What did it matter, even though he 
should embrace her? It was her lot to un- 
dergo misery, and as she had not chosen to 
take poison, the misery must be endured. 
She rose as he entered and gave him her 
hand. She had thought what she would 
do, and was collected and dignified. He 
had not, and was very awkward. “ So 
you haven’t gone to church. Sir Griffin, 
as you ought,” she said, with another 
smile. 

“ Come ; I’ve gone as much as j'ou.” 

“ But I had a headache. You staid 
away to smoke cigars.” 

“ I staid to see you, my girl.” A 
lover may call his lady-love his girl, and 
do so very prettily. He may so use the 
word that she will like it, and be grateful 
in her heart for the sweetness of the 
sound. But Sir Griffin did not do it nice- 
ly. “I’ve got ever so much to say to 
you.” 

“ I won’t flatter you by saying that I 
staid to hear it.” 

“ But you did ; didn’t you now? ” She 
shook her head ; but there was something 
I almost of playfulness in her manner of do- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


187 


ing it. “ Ah, but I know you did. And 
why shouldn’t you speak out, now that 
we are to be man and wife? I like a girl 
to speak out. I suppose if I want to be 
with you, you want as much to be with 
me; eh?” 

“ I don’t see that that follows.” 

“ By , if it doesn’t I’ll be ofi’.” 

“ You must please yourself about that. 
Sir GrifiBn.” 

“Come; do j'ou love me? You have 
never said you loved me.” Luckily per- 
haps for her, he thought that the best as- 
surance of love was a kiss. She did not 
revolt, or attempt to struggle with him ; 
but the hot blood flew over her entire face, 
and her lips were very cold to his, and she 
almost trembled in his grasp. Sir Griffin 
was not a man who could ever have been 
the adored of many women, but the in- 
stincts of his kind were strong enough 
within him to make him feel that she did 
not return his embrace with passion. He 
had found her to be very beautiful ; but it 
seemed to him that she had never been so 
little beautiful as when thus pressed close 
to his bosom. “Come,” he said, still 
holding her, “ you’ll give me a kiss? ” 

“ I did do it,” she said. 

“No; nothing like it. Oh, if you 
won’t, you know .” 

On a sudden she made up her mind, and 
absolutely did kiss him. She would soon- 
er have leaped at the blackest, darkest, 
dirtiest river in the county. “There,” 
she said, “ that will do,” gently extricat- 
ing herself from his arms. “Some girls 
are different, I know ; but yon must take 
me as I am. Sir Griffin ; that is, if you do 
take me.” 

“ Why can’t you drop the Sir?” 

“ Oh yes ; I can do that.” 

“ And you do love me? ” There was a 
pause, while she tried to swallow the lie. 
“ Come ; I’m not going to marry any girl 
who is ashamed to say that she loves me. 
1 like a little flesh and blood. You do 
love me? ” 

“Yes,” she said. The lie was told; 
and for the moment he had to be satisfied. 
But in his heart he didn’t believe her. It 
was all very well for her to say that she 
wasn’t like other girls. Why shouldn’t 
she be like other girls? It might, no 
doubt, suit her to be made Lady Tewett ; 
but he wouldn’t make her Lady Tewett if 
she gave herself airs with him. She 
should lie on his breast and swear that she 


loved him beyond all the world, or else 
she should never be Lady Tewett. Differ- 
ent from other girls indeed ! She should 
know that he was different from other 
men. Then he asked her to come and 
take a walk about the grounds. To that 
she made no objection. She would get 
her hat and be with him in a minute. 

But she was absent more than ten min- 
utes. When she was alone she stood be- 
fore her glass looking at herself, and then 
she burst into tears. Never before had 
she been thus polluted. The embrace had 
disgusted her. It made her odious to her 
self. And the beginning of it, 

was so bad, ho^w!|^he to drink the cup 
to the bitter (fi%gs ? 
knew, were fond of their some so 
fond of them that all moments of absence 
were moments, if not of pain, at any rate 
of regret. To her, as she stood there 
ready to tear herself because of the vile- 
ness of her own condition, it now seemed 
as though no such love as that were pos- 
sible to her. For the sake of this man 
who was to be her husband, she hated all 
men. Was not everything around her 
base, and mean, and sordid? She had 
understood thoroughly the quick divulg- 
ings of Mrs. Carbuncle’s tidings, the 
working of her aunt’s anxious mind. The 
man, now that he had been caught, was 
not to be allowed to escape. But how 
great -would be the boon if he would es- 
cape. How should she escape? And yet 
she knew that she meant to go on and 
bear it all. Perhaps by study and due 
practice she might become — as -were some 
others — a beast of prey and nothing more. 
The feeling that had made these few min- 
utes so inexpressibly loathsome to her 
might, perhaps, be driven from her heart. 
She washed the tears from her eyes "with 
savage energy, and descended to her lover 
with a veil fastened closely under her hat. 
“ I hope I haven’t kept you w'aiting,” she 
said. 

“ Women always do,” he replied laugh- 
ing. “ It gives them importance.” 

“ It is not so with me, I can assure 
you. I will tell you the truth. I w'as 
agitated, and I cried.” 

“Oh, ay; I dare say.” He rather 
liked the idea of having reduced the 
haughty Lucinda to tears. “ But j'ou 
needn’t have been ashamed of my seeing 
it. As it is, I can see nothing. You must 
take that ofi’ presently.” 


188 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ Not now, Griffin.” Oh, what a name 
it was ! It seemed to blister her tongue 
as she used it without the usual prefix. 

“ I never saw you tied up in that way 
before. You don’t do it out hunting. 
I’ve seen you when the snow has been 
driving in your face, and you didn’t mind 
it — not so much as I did.” 

“You can’t be surprised that I should 
be agitated now.” 

“ But you're happy, ain’t you? ” 

“Yes,” she said. The lie once told 
must of course be continued. 

“ Upon my word, I don’t quite under- 
stand you,” said Sir Griffin. “ Look here, 
Lucinda ; if you want to back out of it 
you can, you know.” 

“ If you ask me again, I will.” This 
was said with the old savage voice, and it 
at once reduced Sir Griffin to thraldom. 
To be rejected now would be the death of 
him. And should there come a quarrel, 
he was sure that it would seem to be that 
he had been rejected. 

“I suppose it’s all right,” he said; 
“ only when a man is only thinking how 
he can make you happy, he doesn’t like 
to find nothing but crying.” After this 
there was but little more said between 
them before they returned to the castle. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

LIFE AT PORTRAY. 

UN the Monday Frank took his depart- 
ure. Everybody at the castle had liked 
him except Sir Griffin, who, when he had 
gone, remarked to Lucinda that he was an 
insufferable legal prig, and one of those 
chaps who think themselves somebody be- 
cause they are in Parliament. Lucinda 
had liked Frank, and said so very boldly. 
“I see what it is,” replied Sir Griffin; 
“you always like the people I don’t.” 
When he was going, Lizzie left her hand 
in his for a moment, and gave one look 
up into his eyes. “ When is Lucy to be 
made blessed?” she asked. “I don’t 
know that Lucy will ever be made 
blessed,” he replied, “but I am sure I 
hope she will.” Not a word more was 
said, and he returned to London. 

After that Mrs. Carbuncle and Lucinda 
icmained at Portray Castle till after 
Christmas, greatly overstaying the origi- 
nal time fixed for their visit. Lord George 
and Sir Griffin went and returned, and 


went again and returned again. There 
was much hunting and a great many love 
passages, which need not be recorded 
here. More, than once during these six or 
seven weeks there arose a quarrel, bitter, 
loud, and pronounced, between Sir Griffin 
and Lucinda ; but Lord George and Mrs. 
Carbuncle between them managed to 
throw oil upon the waters, and when 
Christmas came the engagement was still 
an engagement. The absolute suggestion 
that it should be broken, and abandoned, 
and thrown to the winds, always came 
from Lucinda; and Sir Griffin, when he 
found that Lucinda was in earnest, would 
again be moved by his old desires, and 
would determine that he would have the 
thing he wanted. Once he behaved with 
such coarse brutality that nothing but an 
abject apology would serve the turn. He 
made the abject apology, and after that 
became conscious that his wings were 
clipped, and that he must do as he was 
bidden. Lord George took him away, and 
brought him back again, and blew him 
up ; and at last, under pressure from Mrs. 
Carbuncle, made him consent to the fixing 
of a day. The marriage was to take place 
during the first week in April. When 
the party moved from Portray he was to 
go up to Loudon and see his laAvyer. Set- 
tlements were to be arranged, and some- 
thing was to be fixed as to future resi- 
dence. 

In the midst of all this Lucinda was 
passive as regarded the making of the ar- 
rangements, but very troublesome to those 
around her as to her immediate mode of 
life. Even to Lady Eustace she was curt 
and uncivil. To her aunt she was at 
times ferocious. She told Lord George 
more than once to his face that he was 
hurrying her to perdition. “ What the 

d is it you want? ” Lord George said 

to her. “ Not to be married to this man.” 
“But you have accepted him. I didn’t 
ask you to take him. You don’t want to 
go into a workhouse, I suppose? ” Then 
she rode so hard that all the Ayrshire 
lairds were startled out of their propriety, 
and there was a general fear that she 
would meet some terrible accident. And 
Lizzie, instigated by jealousy, learned to 
ride as hard, and as they rode against 
each other every day, there was a turmoil 
in the hunt. Morgan, scratching his 
head, declared that he had known “ drunk- 
en rampaging men,” but had never seen 


TPIE EUSTACE DIAJMONDS. 


189 


ladies so wicked. Lizzie did come down 
rather badly at one wall, and Lucinda got 
herself jammed against a gate-post. But 
when Christmas was come and gone, and 
Portray Castle had been left empt}’’, no 
very bad accident had occurred. 

A great friendship had sprung up be- 
tween Mrs. Carbuncle and Lizzie, so that 
both had become very communicative. 
Whether both or either had been candid 
may, perhaps, be doubted. Mrs. Car- 
buncle had been quite confidential in dis- 
cussing with her friend the dangerous 
varieties of Lucinda’s humors, and the 
dreadful aversion which she still seemed 
to entertain for Sir Griflin. But then 
these humors and this aversion were so 
visible, that they could not well be con- 
cealed ; and what can be the use of con- 
fidential communications if things are 
kept back which the confidante would see 
even if they were not told? “ She would 
be just like that, whoever the man was,” 
said Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ I suppose so,” said Lizzie, wondering 
at such a phenomenon in female nature. 
But with this fact, understood between 
them to be a fact — namely, that Lucinda 
would be sure to hate any man whom she 
might accept — they both agreed that the 
marriage had better go on. 

“ She must take a husband some day, 
you know,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ Of course,” said Lizzie. 

“ With her good looks, it would be out 
of the o icstion that she shouldn’t be 
married.” 

“ Quite out of the question,” repeated 
Lizzie. 

“ And I really don’t see how she’s to do 
better. It’s her nature, you know. I 
have had enough of it, I can tell you. 
And at the pension, near Paris, they 
couldn’t break her in at all. Nobody 
could ever break her in. You see it in 
the way she rides.” 

“ 1 suppose Sir Griffin must do it,” 
said Lizzie, laughing. 

“ Well — that, or the other thing, you 
know.” But there was no doubt about 
this — whoever might break or be broken, 
the marriage must go on. “ If you don’t 
persevere with one like her. Lady Eus- 
tace, nothing can be done.” Lizzie quite 
concurred. What did it matter to her 
who should break, or who be broken, if 
she coi^d only sail her own little bark 
without dashing it on the rocks? Rocks 


there were. She didn’t quite know what 
to make of Lord George, who certainly 
was a Corsair — who had said some very 
pretty things to her, quite a la Corsair. 
But in the meantime, from certain rumors 
that she heard, she believed that Frank 
had given up, or at least was intending 
to give up, the little chit who was living 
with Lady Linlithgow. There had been 
something of a quarrel — so, at least, she 
had heard through Miss Macnulty, with 
whom Lady Linlithgow still occasionally 
corresponded in spite of their former 
breaches. From Frank Lizzie heard re- 
peatedly, but Frank in his letters never 
mentioned the name of Lucy Morris. 
Now, if there should be a division be- 
tween Frank and Lucy, then, she thought, 
Frank would return to her. And if so, 
for a permanent holding rock of pro- 
tection in the world, her cousin Frank 
would be at any rate safer than the Cor- 
sair. 

Lizzie and Mrs. Carbuncle had quite 
come to understand each other comfortably 
about money. It suited Mrs. Carbuncle 
very well to remain at Portray. It was 
no longer necessary that she should carry 
Lucinda about in search of game to be 
run down. The one head of game needed 
had been run down, such as it was — not, 
indeed, a very noble stag ; but the stag- 
had been accepted ; and a home for her- 
self and her niece, which should have 
about it a sufficient air of fashion to 
satisfy public opinion — out of London — 
better still, in Scotland, belonging to a 
person with a title, enjoying the appur- 
tenances of wealth, and one to which 
Lord George and Sir Griflin could have 
access — was very desirable. But it was 
out of the question that Lady Eustace 
should bear all the expense. Mrs. Car- 
buncle undertook to find the stables, and 
did pay for that rick of hay and for the 
cartload of forage which had made Liz- 
zie’s heart quake as she saw it dragged 
up the hill towards her own granaries. 
It is very comfortable when all these 
things are clearly understood. Early in 
January they were all to go back to Lon- 
don. Then for a while — up to the period 
of Lucinda’s marriage — Lizzie was to be 
Mrs. Carbuncle’s guest at the small house 
in May Fair, but Lizzie was to keep the 
carriage. There came at last to be some 
little attempt, perhaps, at a hard bargain 
at the hand of each lady, in which Mrs. 


190 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Carbimcle, as the elder, probably got the 
advantage. There was a question about 
the liveries in London. The footman 
there must appertain to Mrs. Carbuncle, 
whereas the coachman would as neces- 
sarily be one of Lizzie’s retainers. Mrs. 
Carbuncle assented at last to finding the 
double livery — but, like a prudent woman, 
arranged to get her quid pro quo. “ You 
can add something, you know, to the 
present you’ll have to give Lucinda. Lu- 
cinda shall choose something up to forty 
pounds.” “ AYe’ll say thirty,” said 
Lizzie, who was beginning to know the 
value of money. “ Split the difierence,” 
said Mrs. Carbuncle, with a pleasant 
little burst of laughter — and the difier- 
ence was split. That the very neat and 
even dandified appearance of the groom 
who rode out hunting with them should 
be provided at the expense of Mrs. Car- 
buncle was quite understood ; but it was 
equally well understood that Lizzie was 
to provide the horse on which he rode, on 
every third day. It adds greatly to the 
comfort of friends living together when 
these things are accurately settled. 

Mr. Emilius remained longer than had 
Ix!en anticipated, and did not go till Lord 
George and Sir Griffin took their depart- 
ure. It was observed that he never spoke 
of his wife ; and yet Mrs. Carbuncle was 
almost sure that she had heard of such a 
lady. lie had made himself very agreea- 
ble, and was, either by art or nature, a 
courteous man, one who paid compliments 
to ladies. It was true, however, that he 
sometimes startled hLs hearers by things 
which might have l^een considered to bor- 
der on coarseness if they had not been 
said by a clergyman. Lizzie had an idea 
that he intended to marry ^Miss Macnulty. 
And Miss Macnulty certainly received his 
attentions with pleasure. In these cir- 
cumstances his prolonged stay at the cas- 
tle was not questioned ; but when toward 
the end of November Lord George and Sir 
Griffin took their departure, he was obliged 
to return to his flock. 

On the great subject of the diamonds 
Lizzie had spoken her mind freely to Mrs. 
Carbuncle early in the days of their friend- 
ship — immediately, that is, after the bar- 
gaining had been completed. “ Ten 
thousand ix)unds ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Car- 
buncle, opening wide her eyes. Lizzie 
nodded her head thrice, in token of reit- 
erated assurance. “ Do you mean that 


you really know their value?” The la- 
dies at this time were closeted together, 
and were discussing many things in the 
closest confidence. 

“ They were valued for me by jewel- 
lers.” 

“ Ten thousand pounds! And Sir Flo- 
rian gave them to you ? ” 

“ Put them round my neck, and told me 
they were to be mine, alwa3’s.” 

“ Generous man ! ” 

“ Ah, if 3’ou had but known him I ” said 
Lizzie, just touching her e^’e with her 
handkerchief. 

. “ I dare say. And now the people claim 
them. I’m not a bit surprised at that, 
my dear. I should have thought a man 
couldn’t give away so much as that, not 
just as one makes a present that costs 
forty or fifty pounds.” Mrs. Carbuncle 
could not resist the opportunit}" of show- 
ing that she did not think so very much 
of that coming thirt^^-five-pound “ gift” 
for which the bargain had been made. 

“ That’s what they say. And they say 
ever so many other things besides. They 
mean to prove that it’s an — heirloom.” 

“ Perhaps it is.” 

“ But it isn’t. My cousin Frank, who 
knows more about law than any other man 
in London, says that they can’t make a 
necklace an heirloom . If ft was a brooch or 
a ring, it would be difierent. I don’t quite 
understand it, but it is so.” 

“It’s a pity Sir Florian didn’t say 
something about it in his will,” suggested 
Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“But he did; at least, not just about 
the necklace.” Then Lady Eustace ex- 
plained the nature of her late husband’s 
will, as far as it regarded chattels to be 
found in the castle of Portray at the time 
of his death ; and added the fiction, which 
had now become common to her, as to the 
necklace having been given to her in Scot- 
land. 

“ I shouldn’t let them have it,” said 
Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ I don’t mean,” said Lizzie. 

“ I should sell them,” said Mrs. Car- 
buncle. 

“ But why ? ” 

“ Because there are so many accidents. 
A woman should be very rich indeed be- 
fore she allows herself to walk about with 
ten thousand pounds upon her shoulders. 
Suppose somebody broke into the house 
and stole them. And if they were sold. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


191 


my dear, so that some got to Paris, and 
others to St. Petersburg, and others to 
New York, they’d have to give it up 
then.” Before the discussion was over 
Lizzie tripped up stairs and brought the 
necklace down and put it on Mrs. Car- 
buncle’s neck. “ I shouldn’t like to have 
such property in my house, my dear,” 
continued Mrs. Carbuncle. “ Of course 
diamonds are very nice. Nothing is so 
nice. And if a person had a proper place 
tO'keep them, and all that ” 

“ I’ve a very strong iron case,” said 
Lizzie. 

“But they should be at the bank, or at 
the jeweller’s, or somewhere quite — quite 
safe. People might steal the case and all. 
If I were you, I should sell them.” It 
was explained to Mrs. Carbuncle on that 
occasion that Lizzie had brought them 
down with her in the train from London, 
and that she intended to take them back 
in the same way. “ There’s nothing the 
thieves would find easier than to st6al them 
on the way,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. 

It was some daj^s after this that there 
came down to her by post some terribly 
frightful documents, which were the first 
results, as far as she was concerned, of 
the filing of a bill in Chancery ; which 
hostile proceeding was, in truth, effected 
by the unaided energy of Mr. Camper- 
down, although Camperdown put 

himself forward simi^ly as an instrument 
used by the trustees of the Eustace prop- 
erty. Within eight days she was to enter 
an appearance, or go through some pre- 
limiuary ceremony toward showing why 
she should not surrender her diamonds to 
the Lord Chancellor, or to one of those 
satraps of his, the Vice-Chancellors, or 
to some other terrible myrmidon. Mr. 
Camperdown in his letter explained that 
the service of this document upon her in 
Scotland would amount to nothing, even 
were he to send it down by a messenger ; 
but that no doubt she would send it to 
her attorney, who would see the expedi- 
ency of’ avoiding exposure by accepting 
the service. Of all which explanation 
Lizzie did not understand one word. 
Messrs. Camperdowns’ letter and the doc- 
ument which it contained did frighten her 
considerably, although the matter had 
been discussed so often that she had ac- 
customed herself to declare that no such 
bugbear as that should have any influence 
on her. She had asked Frank whether, in 


the event of such missiles reaching her, 
she might send them to him. He had 
told her that they should be at once placed 
in the hands of her attorney ; and conse- 
quently she now sent them to Messrs. 
MoAVbray and Mopus, with a very short 
note from herself. “ Lady Eustace pre- 
sents her compliments to JNIessrs. JNlow- 
bray and Mopus, and encloses some papers 
she has received about her diamonds. 
They are her own diamonds, given to her 
by her late husband. Please do what is 
proper, but Mr. Camperdown ought to l)e 
made to pay all the expenses.” 

She had, no doubt, allowed herself to 
hope that no further steps would be taken 
in the matter ; and the very name of the 
Vice-Chancellor did for a few hours chill 
the blood at her heart. In those few 
hours she almost longed to throAv the 
necklace into the sea, feeliug sure that, if 
the diamonds were absolutely lost, there 
must be altogether an end of the matter. 
But, by degrees, her courage returned to 
her, as she remembered that her cousin 
had told her that, as far as he could see, 
the necklace was legally her OAvn. Her 
cousin had, of course, been deceived by 
the lies which she had repeated to him ; 
but lies which had been efficacious Avith 
him might be efficacious with others. 
Who could prove that Sir Florian had not 
taken the diamonds to Scotland, and given 
them to her there, in that very house 
Avhich Avas noAV her oAvn ? 

She told Mrs. Carbuncle of the missiles 
which had been hurled at her from the 
London courts of law, and Mrs. Car- 
buncle evidently thought that the dia- 
monds Avere as good as gone. ‘ ‘ Then I 
suppose you can’t sell them,” said she. 

“ Yes I could ; I could sell them to- 
morrow. What is to hinder me? Sup- 
pose I took them to jeAvellers in Paris? ” 

“ The jeAAmllers \Amuld think you had 
stolen them.” 

“ I didn’t steal them,” said Lizzie. 
“ They’re my very own. Frank says that 
nobody can take them away from me. 
AVhy shouldn’t a man gtye his wife a dia- 
mond necklace as well as a diamond ring? 
That’s Avhat I can’t understand. What 
may he give her so that men shan’t come 
and Avorry her life out of her in this way? 
As for an heirloom, anybody who knoAVS 
anything, knows it can’t be an heirloom. 
A pot or a pan may be an heirloom ; but a 
diamond necklace cannot be an heirloom. 


192 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Everybody knows that, that knows any- 
thing.” 

“ I daresay it will all come right,” said 
Mrs. Carbuncle, who did not in the. least 
believe Lizzie’s law about the pot and 
pan. 

In the first week in January Lord 
George and Sir Griffin returned to the 
castle with the view of travelling up to 
London with the three ladies. This ar- 
rangement was partly thrown over by cir- 
cumstances, as Sir Griffin was pleased to 
leave Portray two days before the others 
and to travel by himself. There was a 
bitter quarrel between Lucinda and her 
lover, and it was understood afterwards by 
Lady Eustace that Sir Griffin had had a 
few words with Lord George; but what 
those few words were, she never quite 
knew. There was no open rupture be- 
tween the two gentlemen, but Sir Griffin 
showed his displeasure to the ladies, who 
were more likely to bear patiently his 
ill-humor in the present circumstances 
than was Lord George. When a man 
has shown himself to be so far amena- 
ble to feminine authority as to have put 
himself in the way of matrimony, ladies 
will bear a great deal from him. There 
was nothing which Mrs. Carbuncle would 
not endure from Sir Griffin, just at pres- 
ent ; and, on behalf of Mrs. Carbuncle, 
even Lizzie was long-suffering. It can- 
not, however, be said that this Petruchio 
had as yet tamed his own peculiar shrew. 
Lucinda was as savage as ever, and would 
snap and snarl, and almost bite. Sir 
Griffin would snarl too, and say very 
bearish things. But when it came to the 
point of actual quarrelling, he would be- 
come sullen, and in his sullenness would 
yield. 

“I don’t see why Carruthers should 
have it all his own way,” he said, one 
hunting morning, to Lucinda. 

“I don’t care twopence who have their 
way,” said Lucinda. “ I mean to have 
mine; that’s all.” 

“ I’m not speaking about you. I call 
it downright interference on his part. 
And I do think you give way to him. 
You never do anything that I suggest.” 

“ You never suggest anything that I 
like to do,” said Lucinda. 

“ That’s a pity, ’’said Sir Griffin, “ con- 
sidering that I shall have to suggest so 
many things that you will have to do.” 


I “I don’t know that at all,” said Lu« 
cinda. 

Mrs. Carbuncle came up during the 
quarrel, meaning to throw oil upon the 
watere. “ What children you are ! ” she 
said laughing. “ As if each of you won’t 
have to do what the other suggests.” 

“ Mrs. Carbuncle,” began Sir Griffin, 
“ if you will have the great kindness not 
to endeavor to teach me what my con- 
duct should be now or at any future 
time, I shall take it as a kindness.” 

“ Sir Griffin, pray don’t quarrel with 
Mrs. Carbuncle,” said Lizzie. 

“ Lady Eustace, if Mrs. Carbuncle in- 
terferes with me, I shall quarrel with 
her. I have borne a great deal more of 
this kind of thing than I like. I’m not 
going to be told this and told that because 
Mrs. Carbuncle happens to be the aunt of 
the future Lady Tewett — if it should come 
to that. I’m not going to marry a whole 
family ; and the less I have Of this kind 
of thing the more likely it is that I shall 
come up to scratch when the time is up.” 

Then Lucinda rose and spoke. “ Sir 
Griffin Tewett,” she said, “ there is not 
the slightest necessity that you should 
‘ come up to scratch.’ I wonder that I 
have not as yet been able to make you un- 
derstand that if it will suit your conve- 
nience to break oil’ our match, it will not in 
the least interfere with mine. And let 
me tell you this. Sir Griffin, that any 
repetition of your unkindness to my aunt 
will make me utterly refuse to see you 
again.” 

“ Of course you like her better than you 
do me.” 

“ A great deal better,” said Lucinda. 

“ If I stand that I’ll be ,” said Sir 

Griffin, leaving the room. And he left 
the castle, sleeping that night in the inn 
at Kilmarnock. The day, however, was 
passed in hunting ; and though he said 
nothing to either of the three ladies, it 
was understood by them as they returned 
to Portray that there was to be no quarrel. 
Lord George and Sir Griffin had discussed 
the matter, and Lord George took upon 
himself to say that there was no quarrel 
On the morning but one following, there 
came a note from Sir Griffin to Lucinda, 
just as they were leaving home for their 
journey up to London, in which Sir 
Griffin expressed his regret if he had said 
anything displeasing to Mrs. Carbuncle. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


193 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE. 

Something as to the jewels had been 
told to Lord George ; and this was quite 
necessary, as Lord George intended to 
ti-avel with the ladies from Portray to 
London. Of course he had heard of the 
diamonds, as who had not? lie had 
heard too of Lord Fawn, and knew why 
it was that Lord Fawn had peremptorily 
refused to carry out his engagement. 
But, till he was told by Mis. Carbuncle, 
he did not know that the diamonds were 
then kept within the castle, nor did he un- 
derstand that it would be part of his duty 
to guard them on their way back to Lon- 
don. They are worth ever so much, 
ain't they?” he said to Mrs. Carbuncle, 
when she first gave him the information. 

“ Ten thousand pounds,” said Mrs. 
Carbuncle, almost with awe. 

I don’t believe a word of it,” said 
Lord George. 

“ She says that they’ve been valued at 
that, since she’s had them.” 

Lord George owned to himself that such 
a necklace was worth having, as also, no 
doubt, were Portray Castle and the in- 
come arising from the estate, even though 
they could be held in possession only for a 
single life. Hitherto in his very checkered 
career he had escaped the trammels of 
matrimony, and among his many modes 
of life had hardly even suggested to him- 
self the expediency of taking a wife with 
a fortune, and then settling down for the 
future, if submissively, still comfortably. 
To say that he had never looked forward 
to such a marriage as a possible future 
arrangement, would probably be incorrect. 
To men such as Lord George it is too easy 
a result of a career to be altogether ban- 
ished from the mind. But no attempt 
had ever yet been made, nor had any 
special lady ever been so far honored in 
his thoughts as to be connected in them 
with any vague ideas which he might 
have formed on the subject. But now it 
did occur to him that Portray Castle was 
a place in which he could pass two or 
three months annually without ennui; 
and that if he were to marry, little Lizzie 
Eustace would do as well as any other 
woman with money whom he might 
chance to meet. He did not say all this 
to anybody, and therefore cannot be ac- 
13 


cused of vanity. He was the last man in 
the world to speak on such a subject to 
any one. And as even Lizzie certainly 
bestowed upon him many of her smiles, 
much of her poetry, and some of her con- 
fider\pe, it cannot be said that he was not 
justified in his views. But then she was 
such an — “infernal little liar.” Lord 
George was quite able to discover so much 
of her. 

“ She does lie, certainly,” said Mrs. 
Carbuncle, “ but then who doesn’t ? ” 

On the morning of their departure the 
box with the diamonds was brought down 
into the hall just as they were about to 
depart. The tall London footman again 
brought it down, and deposited it on one 
of the oak hall-chairs, as though it were 
a thing so heavy that he could hardly 
stagger along with it. How Lizzie did 
hate the man as she watched him, and re- 
gret that she had not attempted to carry 
it down herself. She had been with her 
diamonds that morning, and had had 
them out of the box and into it. Few 
days passed on which she did not handle 
them and gaze at them. Mrs. Carbuncle 
had suggested that the box, with all her 
diamonds in it, might be stolen from her, 
and as she thought of this her heart al- 
most sank within her. "When she had 
them once again in London she would 
take some steps to relieve herself from 
this embarrassment of carrying about with 
her so great a burden of care. The man, 
with a vehement show of exertion, de- 
posited the box on a chair, and then 
groaned aloud. Lizzie knew very well 
that she could lift the box by her own un- 
aided exertions, and the groan was at any 
rate unnecessary. 

“Supposing somebody were to steal 
that on the way,” said Lord George to 
her, not in his pleasantest tone. 

“ Do not suggest anything so horrible,” 
said Lizzie, trying, to laugh. 

“ I shouldn’t like it at all,” said Lord 
George. 

“ I don’t think it would make me a bit 
unhappy. You’ve heard about it all. 
There never was such a persecution. I 
often say that I should be well pleased to 
take the bauble and fling it into the ocean 
waves.” 

“ I should like to be a mermaid and 
catch it,” said Lord George. 

“And what better would you be? 
Such things are all vanity and vexation 


194 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


of spirit. I hate the shining thing.” 
And she hit the box with the whip she 
held in her hand. 

It had been arranged tliat the party 
should sleep at Carlisle. It consisted of 
Ijord George, the three ladies, the tall 
man servant. Lord George’s own man, 
and the two maids. Miss Macnulty, with 
the heir and the nurses, were to remain 
at Portray for yet a while longer. The 
iron box was again put into the carriage, 
and w’as used by Lizzie as a footstool. 
This might have been very well, had there 
been no necessity for changing their 
train. At Troon the porter behaved well, 
and did not struggle much as he carried it 
from the carriage on to the platform. 
But at Kilmarnock, where they met the 
train from Glasgow, the big footman inter- 
fered again, and the scene was performed 
under the eyes of a crowd of people. It 
seemed to Lizzie that Lord George almost 
encouraged the struggling, as though he 
were in league with the footman to annoy 
her. But there was no further change 
between Kilmarnock and Carlisle, and 
they managed to make themselves verj^ 
comfortable. Lunch had been provided ; 
for Mrs. Carbuncle wms a w'oman w’ho 
cared for such things, and Lord George 
also liked a glass of champagne in the 
middle of the day. Lizzie professed to be 
perfectly indifferent on such matters ; but 
nevertheless she enjoyed her lunch, and al- 
lowed Lord George to press upon her a sec- 
ond, and perhaps a portion of a third glass 
of wine. Even Lucinda was roused up from 
her general state of apathy, and permit- 
ted herself to forget Sir GriflSnfor a while. 

During this journe}" to Carlisle Lizzie 
Eustace almost made up her mind that 
Lord George was the very Corsair she had 
been expecting ever since she had mas- 
tered Lord Byron’s great poem. He had 
a way of doing things and of saying 
things, of proclaiming himself to be mas- 
ter, and at the same time of making hun- 
self thoroughly agreeable to his depend- 
ants, and especially to the one dependant 
Avhom he most honored at the time, which 
exactly suited Lizzie’s ideas of what a 
man should be. And then he possessed 
that utter indifference to all conventions 
and laws, which is the great prerogative 
of Corsairs. He had no reverence for 
aught divine or human, which is a great 
thing. The Queen and Parliament, the 
bench of bishops, and even the police. 


, were to him just so many fungi and para- 
sites, and noxious vapors, and false hypo- 
critas. Such w'ere the names by w’hich he 
ventured to call these bugbears of the 
world. It was so delightful to live with a 
man who himself had a title of his own, 
but who could speak of dukes and mar- 
quises as being quite despicable by reason 
of their absurd position. And as they be- 
came gay and free after their luncheon he 
expressed almost as much contempt for 
honesty as for dukes, and showed clearly 
that he regarded matrimony and maiv 
quises to be equally vain and useless. 
“How dare 3'ou say such things in our 
hearing?” exclaimed Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ I assert that if men and Avomen Avere 
really true, no a'OWs Avould be needed ; 
and if no voavs, then no man-iage voavs. 
Do you believe such vows are kept? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Carbuncle enthusias- 
tically. 

“I don’t,” said Lucinda. 

“Nor I,” said the Corsair. “Who 
can believe tha*t a woman will always love 
her husband because she SAA’ears she Avill? 
The oath is false on the face of it.” 

“ But women must marrj’',” said Lizzie. 
The Corsair declared freely that he did not 
see any such necessity. 

And then, though it could hardly be 
said that this Corsair was a handsome 
man, still he had fine Corsair eyes, full of 
expression and determination, eyes that 
could look love and bloodshed almost at 
the same time : and then he had those 
manl}^ properties — power, bigness, and 
apparent boldneSvS — Avhicli belong to a Cor- 
sair. To be hurried about the world by 
such a man, treated sometimes with 
crushing severity, and at others Avith the 
tenderest love, not to be spoken to for one 
fortnight, and then to be embraced perpet- 
ually for another, to be cast every now 
and then into some ab3^ss of despair by his 
rashness, and then raised to a pinnacle of 
human joy by his courage — that, thought 
Lizzie, would be the kind of life which 
would suit her poetical temperament. 
But then, hoAV Avould it be with her if 
the Corsair were to take to hurrying about 
the Avorld Avithout carrying her with him, 
and were to do so always at her expense? 
Perhaps he might hurry about the world 
and take somebody else Avith him. Medo- 
ra, if Lizzie remembered rightly, had had 
no jointure or private fortune. But yet a 
AA’oman must risk something if the spirit 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


of poetry is to be allowed any play at all ! 
“ And now these weary diamonds again,” 
said Lord George, as the carriage was 
stopped against the Carlisle platform. 
“ I suppose they must go into your bed- 
room, Lady Eustace? ” 

“ I wish you’d let the man put the box 
in yours, just for this night,” said Lizzie. 

“ No, not if I know it,” said Lord 
George. And then he explained. Such 
property would be quite as liable to be 
stolen when in his custody as it would in 
hers ; but if stolen while in his would en- 
tail upon him a grievous vexation which 
Avould by no means lessen the effect of her 
loss. She did not understand him, but 
finding that he was quite in earnest she 
directed that the boxshould be again taken 
to her own chamber. Lord George sug- 
gested that it should be intrusted to the 
landlord ; and for a moment or two Lizzie 
submitted to the idea. But she stood for 
that moment thinking of it, and then de- 
cided that the box should go to her own 
room. “ There’s no knowing what that 
Mr. Camperdown mightn’t do,” she whis- 
pered to Lord George. The porter and 
the tall footman, between them, staggered 
along under their load, and the iron box 
was again deposited in the bedroom of the 
Carlisle inn. 

The evening at Carlisle was spent very 
pleasantly. The ladies agreed that they 
would not dress — but of course they did 
.so with more or less of care. Lizzie made 
herself to look very pretty, though the 
skirt of the gown in which she came doAvn 
was that which she had worn during the 
journey. Pointing this out with much 
triumph, she accused Mrs. Carbuncle and 
Lucinda of great treachery, in that they 
had not adhered to any vestige of their 
travelling raiment. But the rancor was 
not vehement, and the evening was passed 
pleasantly. Lord George was infinitely 
petted by the three Houris around him, 
and Lizzie called him a Con^air to his face. 
“ And you are the Medora,” said Mrs. 
Carbuncle. 

“Oh no. That is your place, certain- 
ly,” said Lizzie. 

“ What a pity Sir Griffin Isn’t here,” 
.said Mrs. Carbuncle, “ that we might call 
him the Giaour.” Lucinda shuddered, 
without any attempt at concealing her 
shudder. “ That’s all very well, Lucinda, 
but I think Sir Griffin would make a very 
good Giaour.” 


If 5 

“ Pray don’t, aunt. Let one forget it 
all just for a moment.” 

“ I wonder what Sir Griffin would say 
if he was to hear this,” said Lord George. 

Late in the evening Lord George stroll- 
ed out, and of course all the ladies dis- 
cussed his character in his absence. Mrs. 
Carbuncle declared that he was the soul 
of honor. In regard to her own feeling 
for him, she averred that no woman had 
ever had a truer friend. Any other senti- 
ment was of course out of the question, 
for was she not a married woman? Had 
it not been for that accident Mrs. Carbun- 
cle really thought that she could have 
given her heart to Lord George. Lucinda 
declared that she alwa3"s regarded him as 
a kind of supplementary father. “ I sup- 
pose he is a year or two older than Sir 
Griffin,” .said Lizzie. “ Lady Eustace, 
why should you make me unhappy ? ” said 
Lucinda. Then ^Irs. Carbuncle explained 
that whereas Sir Griffin was not yet thir- 
ty, Lord George was over forty. “ All I 
can say is, he doesn’t look it,” urged 
Lady Eustace enthusiastically. “ Those 
sort of men never do,” said JMrs. Carbun- 
cle. Lord George, when he returned, wa^ 
greeted with an allusion to angels’ wings, 
and would have been a good deal .spoiled 
among them were it in the nature of such 
an article to receive injuiy. As soon as 
the clock had struck ten the ladies all 
went away to their beds. 

Lizzie, when she was in her own room, 
of course found her maid waiting for her. 
It was neces.sarily part of the religion of 
such a woman as Lizzie Eustace that she 
could not go to bed, or change her clothes, 
or get up in the morning, without the a.s- 
sistance of her own j-oung woman. She 
would not like to have it thought that she 
could stick a pin into her own belongings 
without such assistance. Nevertheless it 
was often the case with her that she was 
anxious to get rid of her girl’s attendance. 
It had been so on this morning and before 
dinner, and was so now again. She was 
secret in her movements, and alwa3"s had 
some recess in her boxes and bags and 
dressing apparatuses to which she did not 
choose that Miss Patience Crabstick 
should have access. She was careful 
about her letters, and very careful about 
her money. And then as to that iron box 
in which the diamonds were kept ! Pa- 
tience Crabstick had never yet seen the 
inside of it. Moreover it may be said, 


196 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


either on Lizzie’s behalf or to her discred- 
it, as the reader may be pleased to take 
it, that she was quite able to dress her- 
self, to brush her own hair, to take off her 
own clothes ; and that she was not, either 
by nature or education, an incapable 
young woman. But that honor and glory 
demanded it, she would, almost as lief 
have had no Patience Crabstick to pry 
into her most private matters. All which 
Crabstick knew, and would often declare 
her missus to be “of all missuses the 
most slyest and least come-at-able.” On 
this present night she was very soon des- 
patched to her own chamber. Lizzie, 
however, took one careful look at the iron 
box before the girl was sent away. 

Crabstick, on this occasion, had not far 
to go to seek her own couch. Alongside 
of Lizzie’s larger chamber there was a 
small room, a dressing-room with a bed in 
it, which, for this night, was devoted to 
Crabstick’s accommodation. Of course 
she departed from attendance on her mis- 
tress by the door which opened from the 
one room to the other ; but this had no 
sooner been closed than Crabstick descend- 
ed to complete the amusements of the 
evening. Lizzie, when she was alone, 

1 jolted both the doors on the inside, and 
then quickly retired to rest. Some short 
prayer she said, with her knees close to 
the iron box. Then she put certain arti- 
cles of property under her pillow, her 
watch and chain, and the rings from her 
fingers, and a packet which she had drawn 
from her travelling-desk, and was soon in 
bed, thinking that, as she fell away to 
sleep, she would revolve in her mind that 
question of the Corsair ; would it be good 
to trust herself and all her belongings to 
one who might perhaps take her belong- 
ings away, but leave herself behind ? The 
subject was not unpleasant, and while she 
was considering it she fell asleep. 

It was, perhaps, about two in the morn- 
ing when a man, very efficient at the 
trade which he was then following, knelt 
outside Lady Eustace’s door, and, with a 
delicately-made saw, aided probably by 
some other equally well-finished tools, ab- 
solutely cut out that portion of the bed- 
room door on which the bolt was fastened. 
He must have known the spot exactly, for 
he did not doubt a moment as he com- 
menced his work ; and yet there was 
nothing on the exterior of the door to 
show where the bolt was placed. The bit 


was cut out without the slightest noise, 
and then, when the door was opened, was 
placed just inside upon the floor. The 
man then with perfectly noiseless step en- 
tered the room, knelt again— just where 
poor Lizzie had knelt as she said her 
prayers— so that he might the more easily 
raise the iron box without a struggle, and 
left the room with it in his arms without 
disturbing the lovely sleeper. He then 
descended the stairs, passed into the cof- 
fee-room at the bottom of them, and hand- 
ed the box through an open window to a 
man who was crouching on the outside in 
the dark. He then followed the box, 
pulled down the window, put on a pair 
of boots which his friend had ready for 
him ; and the two, after lingering a few 
moments in the shade of the dark wall, 
retreated with their prize round a corner. 
The night itself was almost pitch-dark, 
and very wet. It was as nearly black 
with darkness as a night can be. So far, 
the enterprising adventurers had been 
successful, and we will now leave them in 
their chosen retreat, engaged on the long- 
er operation of forcing open the iron safe. 
For it had been arranged between them 
that the iron safe should be opened then 
and there. Though the weight to him 
who had taken it out of Lizzie’s room had 
not been oppressive, as it had oppressed 
the tall serving-man, it might still have 
been an incumbrance to gentlemen in- 
tending to travel by railway with as little 
observation as possible. They were, how- 
ever, well supplied with tools, and we 
will leave them at their work. 

On the next morning Lizzie was awa- 
kened earlier than she had expected, and 
found not only Patience Crabstick in her 
bedroom, but also a chambermaid, and 
the wife of the manager of the hotel. 
The story was soon told to her. Her room 
had been broken open, and her- treasure 
was gone. The party had intended to 
breakfast at their leisure, and proceed to 
London by a train leaving Carlisle in the 
middle of the day ; but ^they were soon 
disturbed from their rest. Lady Eustace 
had hardly time to get her slippers from 
her feet, and to wrap herself in her dress- 
ing-gown, to get rid of her dishevelled 
nightcap, and make herself just fit for pub- 
lic view, before the manager of the hotel, 
and Lord George, and the tall footman, 
and the boots were in her bedroom. It 
was too plainly manifest to them all that 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS 


197 


the diamonds were gone. The superin- 
tendent of the Carlisle police was there 
almost as soon as the others ; and follow- 
ing him very quickly came the important 
gentleman who was at the head of the 
constabulary of the count3^ 

Lizzie, when she first heard the news, 
was awe-struck rather than outwardly de- 
monstrative of grief. “ There has been a 
regular plot,” said Lord George. Captain 
Fitzmaurice, the gallant chief, nodded his 
head. “ Plot enough,” said the superin- 
tendent, who did not mean to confide his 
thoughts to any man, or to exempt any 
human being from his suspicion. The 
manager of the hotel was very angiy , and 
at first did not restrain his anger. Did 
not everybody know that if articles of 
value were brought into a hotel they 
should be handed over to the safe keeping 
of the manager? lie almost seemed to 
think that Lizzie had stolen her own box 
of diamonds. “ My dear fellow,” said 
Lord George, “ nobody is saying a word 
against j’^ou or your house.” 

“ No, my lord; but ” 

“ Lady Eustace is not blaming you, and 
do not you blame anybody else,” said 
Lord George. “ Let the police do what is 
right.” 

At last the men retreated, and Lizzie 
was left with Patience and Mrs. Carbun- 
cle. But even then she did not give way* 
to her grief, but sat upon the bed awe- 
struck and mute. “ Perhaps I had bet- 
ter get dressed,” she said at last. 

“ I feared how it might be,” said Mrs. 
Carbuncle, holding Lizzie’s hand affection- 
ately. 

“Yes ; you said so.” 

“ The prize was so great.” 

“ I was alwaj-s a-telling my lady ” 

began Crabstick. 

“ Hold your tongue ! ” said Lizzie an- 
* grily. “ I suppose the police will do the 
best they can, Mrs. Carbuncle?” 

“Oh yes ; and so will Lord George.” 

“ I think I’ll lie down again for a little 


while,” said Lizzie. “ I feel so sick I 
hardly know what to do. If I were to lie 
down for a little I should be better.” 
With much difficulty she got them to 
leave her. Then, before she again un- 
dressed herself, she bolted the door that 
still had a bolt, and turned the lock in 
the other. Having done this, she took 
out from under her pillow the little 
parcel which had been in her desk, and, 
untying it, perceived that her dear 
diamond necklace was perfect, and quite 
safe. 

The enterprising adventurers had, in- 
deed, stolen the iron case, but they had 
stolen nothing else. The reader must not 
suppose that because Lizzie had preserved 
her jewels, she was therefore a consenting 
party to the abstraction of the box. The 
theft had been a genuine theft, planned 
with great skill, carried out with much 
ingenuity, one in the perpetration of 
which money had been spent, a theft 
which for a while baffled the police of 
England, and which was supposed to be 
very creditable to those who had been en- 
gaged in it. But the box, and nothing 
but the box, had fallen into the hands of 
the thieves. 

Lizzie’s silence when the abstraction of 
the box was made known to her, her si- 
lence as to the fact that the necklace was 
at that moment within the grasp of her 
own fingers, was not at first the effect of 
deliberate fraud. She was ashamed to 
tell them that she brought the box empty 
from Portray, having the diamonds in her 
own keeping because she had feared that 
the box might be stolen. And then it oc- 
curred to her, quick as thought could 
flash, that it might be well that Mr. 
Camperdown should be made to believe 
that they had been stolen. And so she 
kept her secret. The reflections of the 
next half-hour told her how very great 
would now be her difficulties. But, as 
she had not disclosed the truth at first, 
she could hard-ly disclose it now. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

THE JOURNEY TO LONDON. 

HEN we left Lady Eustace alone 
in her bedroom at the Carlisle 
hotel after the discovery of the robbery, 
she had very many cares upon her mind. 
The necklace was, indeed, safe under her 
pillow in the bed ; but when all the peo- 
ple were around her — her own friends, 
and the police, and they who were con- 
cerned with the inn — she had not told 
them that it was so, but had allowed 
them to leave her with the belief that the 
diamonds had gone with the box. Even 
at this moment, as she knew well, steps 
were being taken to discover the thieves, 
and to make public the circumstances of 
the robbery. Already, no doubt, the fact 
that her chamber had been entered in the 
night, and her jewel-box withdrawn, was 
known to the London police officers. In 
such circumstances how could she now 
tell the truth? But it might be that al- 
ready had the thieves been taken. In 
that case would not the truth be known, 
even though she should not tell it? Then 
she thought for a while that she would 
get rid of the diamonds altogether, so that 
no one should know aught of them. If 
she could only think of a place fit for such 
purpose, she would so hide them that no 
human ingenuity could discover them. 
Let the thieves say what they might, her 
word would, in such case, be better than 
that of the thieves. She would declare 
that the jewels had been in the box when 
the box was taken. The thieves would 
swear that the box had been empty. She 
would appeal to the absence of the dia- 
monds, and the thieves — who would be 
known as thieves — would be supposed, 
even by their own friends and associates, 
to have disposed of the diamonds before 
they had been taken. There would be a 
mystery in all this, and a cunning clever- 
ness, the idea of which had in itself a cer- 
tain charm for Lizzie Eustace. She would 
have all the world at a loss. Mr. Cam- 
perdown could do nothing further to ha- 
rass her; and would have been, so far, 


overcome. She would be saved from the 
feeling of public defeat in the affair of the 
necklace, which would be very dreadful 
to her. Lord Fawn might probably be 
again at her feet. And in all the fuss 
and rumor which such an aflair would 
make in London, there would be nothing 
of which she need be ashamed. She liked 
the idea, and she had grown to be very 
sick of the necklace. 

But what should she do with it? It 
was, at this moment, between her fingers 
beneath the pillow. If she were minded, 
and she thought she was so minded, to 
get rid of it altogether, the sea would be 
the place. Could she make up her mind 
absolutely to destroy so large a property, 
it would be best for her to have recourse 
to “ her own broad waves,” as she called 
them even to herself. It was within the 
“ friendly depths of her own rock-girt 
ocean ” that she should find a grave for 
her great trouble. But now her back 
was to the sea, and she could hardly insist 
on returning to Portray without exciting 
a suspicion that might be fatal to her. 

And then might it not be possible to 
get altogether quit of the diamonds and 
yet to retain the power of future posses- 
sion? She knew that she was running 
into debt, and that money would, some 
day, be much needed. Her acquaintance 
with Mr. Benjamin, the jeweller, was a 
fact often present to her mind. She 
might not be able to get ten thousand 
pounds from Mr. Benjamin ; but if she 
could get eight, or six, or even five, how 
pleasant would it be ! If she could put 
away the diamonds for three or four 
years, if she could so hide them that no 
human eyes could see them till she should 
again produce them to the light, surely, 
after so long an interval, they might be 
made available ! But where should be 
found such hiding-place ? She under- 
stood well how great was the peril w'hile 
the necklace was in her OAvn immediate 
keeping. Any accident might discover 
it, and if the slightest suspicion were 
aroused, the police would come upon her 
with violence and discover it. But surely 



THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


199 


there must be some such hiding-place, if 
only she could think of it ! Then her 
mind reverted to all the stories she had 
ever heard of mysterious villanies. There 
must be some way of accomplishing this 
thing, if she could only bring her mind to 
work upon it exclusively. A hole dug 
deep into the ground ; would not that be 
the place? But then, Avhere should the 
hole be dug? In what spot should she 
trust the earth ? If anywhere, it must be 
at Portray. But now she was going from 
Portray to London. It seemed to her to 
be certain that she could dig no hole in 
London that would be secret to herself. 
Nor could she trust herself, during the 
hour or two that remained to her, to find 
such a hole in Carlisle. 

What she wanted was a friend ; some 
one that she could trust. But she had no 
such friend. She could not dare to give 
the jewels up to Lord George. So tempted, 
would not any Corsair appropriate the 
treasure? And if, as might be possible, 
she were mistaken about him and he was 
no Corsair, then would he betray her to 
the police. She thought of all her dearest 
friends, Frank Greystock, Mrs. Carbuncle. 
Lucinda, MLss Macnulty, even of Pa- 
tience Crabstick, but there was no friend 
whom she could trust. Whatever she 
did she must do alone ! She began to fear 
that the load of thought required would 
be more than she could bear. One thing, 
however, was certain to her : she could 
not now venture to tell them all that the 
necklace was in her possession, and that 
the stolen box had been empty. 

Thinking of all this, she went to sleep, 
still holding the packet tight between her 
fingers, and in this position was awakened 
at about ten by a knock at the door from 
her friend Mrs. Carbuncle. Lizzie jump- 
ed out of bed, and admitted her friend, 
admitting also Patience Crabstick. “ You 
had better get up now, dear, ’’.said Mrs. 
Carbuncle. “We are all going to break- 
fast.’’ Lizzie declared herself to be so 
fluttered that she must have her break- 
fast up stairs. No one was to wait for 
her. Crabstick would go down and fetch 
for her a cup of tea, and just a morsel of 
something to eat. “ You can’t be sur- 
prised that I shoul in’t be quite mj^self,’’ 
said Lizzie. 

Mrs. Carbuncle’s surprise did not run 
at all in that direction. Both Mrs. Car- 
buncle and Lord George had l)een aston- 


ished to find how well she bore her loss. 
Lord George gave her credit for real 
bravery. Mrs. Carbuncle suggested, in a 
whisper, that perhaps she regarded the 
theft as an easy way out of a lawsuit. 
“I suppose you know, George, they 
would have got it from her.” Then Lord 
George whistled, and, in another whisper, 
declared that, if the little adventure had 
all been arranged by Lady Eustace herself 
with the view of getting the better of Mr. 
Campcrdown, his respect for that lady 
would be very greatly raised. “If,” said 
Lord George, “ it turns out that she has 
had a couple of bravos in her pay, like an 
old Italian marquis, I shall think very 
highly of her indeed.” This had occurred 
before Mrs. Carbuncle came up to Lizzie’s 
room ; but neither of them for a moment 
suspected that the necklace was still 
within the hotel. 

The box had been found, and a portion 
of the fragments were brought into the 
room while the party were still at break- 
fast. Lizzie was not in the room, but the 
news was at once taken up to her by 
Crabstick, together with a pheasant's 
wing and some buttered toast. In a re- 
cess beneath an archway running under 
the railroad, not distant from the hotel 
above a hundred and fifty yards, the iron 
box had been found. It had been forced 
open, so said the sergeant of police, with 
tools of the finest steel, peculiarly made 
for such purpose. The sergeant of police 
was quite sure that the thing had been 
done by London men who were at the 
very top of their trade, It was manifest 
that nothing had been spared. Every mo- 
tion ot the party must have been known 
to them, and probably one of the adven- 
turers had travelled in the same train 
with them. And the very doors of the 
bedroom in the hotel had been measured 
by the man who had cut out the bolt. 
The sergeant of police was almost lost in 
admiration ; but the superintendent of 
police, whom Lord George saw more than 
once, was discreet and silent. To the 
superintendent of police it was by im 
means sure that Lord George himself 
might not be fond of diamonds. Of a 
suspicion flying so delightfully high as 
this, he breathed no word to any one ; 
but simply suggested that he should like 
to retain the companionship of one of the 
party. If Lady Eustace could dispense 
with the services of the tall footman, the 


200 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


tall footman might be found useful at 
Carlisle. It was arranged, therefore, 
that the tall footman should remain ; and 
the tall footman did remain, though not 
with his own consent. 

The whole party, including Lady Eus- 
tace herself and Patience Crabstick, were 
called upon to give their evidence to the 
Carlisle magistrates before they could 
proceed to London. This Lizzie did, hav- 
ing the necklace at that moment locked 
up in her desk at the inn. The diamonds 
were supposed to be worth ten thousand 
pounds. There was to be a lawsuit 
about them. She did not for a moment 
doubt that they were her i^roperty. She 
had been very careful about the diamonds 
because of the lawsuit. Fearing that 
Mr. Camperdown might wrest them from 
her possession, she had caused the iron 
box to be made. She had last seen the 
diamonds on the evening before her de- 
parture from Portray. She had then her- 
self locked them up, and she now pro- 
duced the key. The lock was still so far 
uninjured that the key would turn it. 
That was her evidence. Crabstick, with 
a good deal of reticence, supported her 
mistress. She had seen the diamonds, no 
doubt, but had not seen them often. She 
had seen them down at Portray, but not 
for ever so long. Crabstick had very lit- 
tle to say about them ; but the clever 
superintendent was by no means sure that 
Crabstick did not know more than she 
said. Mrs. Carbuncle and Lord George 
had also seen the diamonds at Portray. 
There was no doubt whatever as to the 
diamonds having been in the iron box ; 
nor was there, said Lord George, any 
doubt but that this special necklace had 
acquired so much public notice from the 
fact of the threatened lawsuit, as might 
make its circumstances and value known 
to London thieves. The tall footman was 
not examined, but was detained by the 
police under a remand given by the mag- 
istrates. 

Much information as to what had been 
done oozed out in spite of the precautions 
of the discreet superintendent. The wires 
had been put into operation in every di- 
rection, and it had been discovered that 
one man whom nobody knew had left the 
down mail train at Annan, and another at 
Dumfries. These men had taken tickets 
by the train leaving Carlisle between four 
' and five a.m., and were supposed to have 


been the two thieves. It had been nearly 
seven before the theft had been discovered, 
and by that time not only had the men 
reached the towns named, but had had time 
to make their way back again or further 
on into Scotland. At any rate, for the 
present, all trace of them was lost. The 
sergeant of police did not doubt but that 
one of these men was making his way up to 
London with the necklace in his pocket. 
This was told to Lizzie by Lord George ; 
and though she was awe-struck by the 
danger of her situation, she nevertheless 
did feel some satisfaction in remembering 
that she and she only held the key of the 
mystery. And then as to those poor 
thieves ! What must have been their 
consternation when they found, after all 
the labor and perils of the night, that the 
box contained no diamonds — that the trea- 
sure was not there, and that they were 
nevertheless bound to save themselves by 
flight and stratagem from the hands of the 
police ! Lizzie, as she thought of this, 
almost* pitied the poor thieves. What a 
consternation there would be among the 
Camperdowns and Garnetts, among the 
Mopuses and Benjamins, when the news 
was heard in London. Lizzie almost en- 
joyed it. As her mind went on making 
fresh schemes on the subject, a morbid 
desire of increasing the mystery took pos- 
session of her. She was quite sure that 
nobody knew her secret, and that nobody 
as yet could even guess it. There was 
great danger, but there might be delight 
and even profit if she could safely dispose 
of the jewels before suspicion against her- 
self should be aroused. She could under- 
stand that a rumor should get to the po- 
lice that the box had been empty, even if 
the thieves were not taken ; but such 
rumor would avail nothing if she could 
only dispose of the diamonds. As she 
first thought of all this, the only plan 
hitherto suggested to herself would re- 
quire her immediate return to Portray. 
If she were at Portray she could find a 
spot in which she could bury the neck- 
lace. But she was obliged to allow her- 
self now to be hurried up to London. 
When she got into the train the little par- 
cel was in her desk, and the key of her 
desk was fastened round her neck. 

They had secured a department for 
themselves from Carlisle to London, and of 
course filled four seats. “ As I am alive,” 
said Lord George as soon as the train had 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


201 


left the station, “ that head policeman 
thinks that I am the thief.” Mrs. Car- 
buncle laughed. Lizzie protested that 
this was absurd. Lucinda declared that 
such a suspicion would be vastly amusing. 
“ It’s a fact,” continued Lord George. 
“ I can see it in the fellow’s eye, and I 
feel it to be a compliment. They are so 
very ’cute that they delight in suspicions. 
I remember when the altar-plate was 
stolen from Barchester cathedral some 
years ago, a splendid idea occurred to one 
of the police that the bishop had taken 
it.” 

“ Really? ” asked Lizzie. 

“ Oh, yes — really. I don't doubt but 
that there is already a belief in some of 
their minds that you have stolen your 
own diamonds for the sake of getting the 
better of Mr. Camperdown.” 

“ But what could I do with them if I 
had? ” asked Lizzie. 

“ Sell them, of course. There is always 
a market for such goods.” 

“ But who would buy them? ” 

“ If you have been so clever, Ladi" Eu- 
stace, I’ll find a purchaser for them. 
One would have to go a good distance to 
do it— and there would be some expense. 
But the thing could be done. Vienna, I 
should think, would be about the place.” 

“ Very well, then,” said Lizzie. “ You 
won’t be surprised if I ask you to take 
the journey for me.” Then they all 
laughed, and were very much amused. 
It was quite agreed among them that Liz- 
zie bore her loss very well. 

“ 1 shouldn’t care the least for losing 
them,” said Lizzie, “ only that Florian 
gave them to me. They have been such a 
vexation to me that to be without them 
will be a comfort.” Her desk had been 
brought into the carriage, and was now 
used as a foot-stool in place of the box 
which was gone. 

They arrived at Mrs. Carbuncle’s house 
in Hertford street quite late, between ten 
and eleven ; but a note had been sent from 
Lizzie to her cousin Frank’s address from 
the Euston Square station by a commis- 
sionnaire. Indeed, two notes were sent — 
one to the House of Commons, and the 
other to the Grosveiior Hotel. “ My 
necklace has been stolen. Come to me 
early to-morrow at Mrs. Carbuncle’s 
house. No. — Hertford street.” And he 
did come, before Lizzie was up Crab- 
stick brought her mistress word that Mr. 


Greystock was in the parlor soon after 
nine o'clock. Lizzie again hurried on her 
clothes so that she might see her cousin, 
taking care as she did, so that though her 
toilet might betray haste, it should not 
be other than charming. And as she 
dressed she endeavored to come to some 
conclusion. AVould it not be best for her 
that she should tell everything to her cou- 
sin, and throw herself upon his mercy, 
trusting to his ingenuity to extricate her 
from her difficulties ? She had been think- 
ing of her position almost through the en- 
tire night, and had remembered that at 
Carlisle she had committed perjury. She 
had sworn that the diamonds had been left 
by her in the box. And should they be 
found with her, it might be that they 
would put her in jail for stealing them. 
Little mercy could she expect from JNIr. 
Camperdown should she fall into that 
gentleman’s hands ! But Frank, if she 
would even yet tell him everything hon- 
estly, might probably save her. 

“ What is this about the diamonds?” 
he asked as soon as he saw her. She had 
flown almost into his arms as though car- 
ried there by the excitement of the mo- 
ment. “ You don’t really mean that they 
have been stolen? ” 

“ I do, Frank.” 

“ On the journey ? ” 

“ Yes, Frank — at the inn at Carlisle.” 
“Box and all?” Then she told him 
the whole story — not the true story, but 
the story as it was believed by all the 
world. She. found it to be impossible to 
tell him the true story. “ And the box 
was broken open, and left in the street? ” 
“ Under an archway,” said Lizzie. 

“ x\nd what do the police think? ” 

“ I don’t know what they think. Lord 
George says that they believe he is the 
thief.” 

“He knew of them,” said Frank, as 
though he imagined that the suggestion 
was not altogether absurd. 

“ Oh, yes — he knew of them.” 

‘ ‘ And what is to be done ? ’ ’ 

“ I don’t know. I’ve sent for you to tell 
me.” Then Frank averred that informa- 
tion should be immediately given to Mr. 
Camperdown. He would himself call on 
Mr. Camperdown, and would also see the 
head of the London police. He did not 
doubt but that all the circumstances were 
already known in London at the police 
office ; but it might be well that he should 


20C 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


see the officer. He was acquainted with 
the gentleman, and might perhaps learn 
something. Lizzie at once acceded, and 
Frank went direct to Mr. Camperdown’s 
offices. “If I had lost ten thousand 
pounds in that way,” said Mrs. Carbun- 
cle, “ I think I should have broken my 
heart.” Lizzie felt that her heart was 
bursting rather than being broken, be- 
cause the ten thousand pounds’ worth of 
diamonds was not really lost. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

LUCY MORRIS IN BROOK STREET. 

Lucy Morris went to Lady Linlithgow 
early in October, and was still with Lady 
Linlithgow when Lizzie Eustace returned 
to London in January. During these 
three months she certainly had not been 
happy. In the first place, she had not 
once seen her lover. This had aroused no 
anger or suspicion in her bosom against 
him, because the old countess had told her 
that she would have no lover come to the 
house, and that, above all, she would not 
allow a young man with whom she her- 
self was connected to come in that guise 
to her companion. “ From all I hear,” 
said Lady Linlithgow, “ it’s not at all 
likely to be a match ; and at any rate it 
can’t go on here.” Lucy thought that 
she would be doing no more than stand- 
ing up properly for her lover by asserting 
her conviction that it would be a match ; 
and she did assert it bravely ; but she 
made no petition for his presence, and 
bore that trouble bravely. In the next 
place, Frank was not a satisfactory corre- 
spondent. He did write to her occasion- 
ally ; and he wrote also to the old countess 
immediately on his return to town from 
Bobsborough a letter which was intended 
as an answer to that which she had writ- 
ten to Mrs. Greystock. What was said in 
that letter Lucy never knew ; but she did 
know that Frank’s few lettei-s to herself 
were not full and hearty — were not such 
thorough-going love-letters as lovers 
write to each other when they feel unlim- 
ited satisfaction in the work. She excus- 
ed him, telling herself that he was over- 
worked, thal; with his double trade of 
legislator and lawyer he could hardly be 
expected to write letters, that men, in re- 
spect of letter-writing, are not as women 
are, and the like ; but still there grew at 


her heart a little weed of care, which* from 
week to week spread its noxious, heavy- 
scented leaves, and robbed her of her joy- 
ousness. To be loved by her lover, and 
to feel that she was his, to have a lover of 
her own to whom she could thoroughly 
devote herself, to be conscious that she 
was one of those happy women in the 
world who find a mate worth}' of worshij) 
as well as love — this to her was so great a 
joy that even the sadness of her present 
position could not utterly depress her. 
From day to day she assured herself that 
she did not doubt and would not doubt — 
that there was no cause for doubt ; that 
she would herself be base were she to 
admit any shadow of suspicion. But yet 
his al)sence, and the shortness of those 
little notes, which came perhaps once a 
fortnight, did tell upon her in opposition 
to her own convictions. Each note as it 
came was answered — instantly ; but she 
would not write except when the notes 
came. She would not seem to reproach 
him by writing oftener than he wrote. 
When he had given her so much, and she 
had nothing but her confidence to give in 
return, would she stint him in that’.^ 
There can be no love, she said, without 
confidence, and it was the pride of her 
heart to love him. 

The circumstances of her present life 
were desperately weary to her. She eould 
hardly understand why it was that Lady 
Linlithgow should desire her presence. 
She was required to do nothing. She had 
no duties to perform, and, as it seemed to 
her, was of no use to any one. The 
countess would not even allow her to be 
of ordinary service in the house. Lady 
Linlithgow, as she had said of herself, 
poked her own fires, carved her own meat, 
lit her own candles, opened and shut the 
doors for herself, wrote her own letters, 
and did not even like to have books read 
to her. She simply chose to have some 
one sitting with her to w'hom she could 
speak and make little cross-grained, sar- 
castic, and ill-natured remarks. There 
was no company at the house in Brook 
street, and when the counte?;s herself went 
out, she went out alone. Even when she 
had a cab to go shopping, or to make calls, 
she rarely asked Lucy to go with her; 
and was benevolent chiefly in this — that 
if Lucy chose to walk round the square or 
as far as the park, her ladyship’s maid 
was allowed to accompany her for protec- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


203 


tion. Poor Lucy often told herself that 
such a life would be unbearable, were it 
not for the supreme satisfaction she had in 
remembering her lover. And then the 
arrangement had been made only for sis 
months. She did not feel quite assured 
of her fate at the end of those six months, 
but she believed that there would come to 
her a residence in a sort of outer garden 
to that sweet Elysium in which she was to 
pass her life. The Elysium would be 
Prank’s house ; and the outer garden was 
the deanery at Bobsborough. 

Twice during the three months Lad^’ 
Fawn, with two of the girls, came to call 
upon her. On the first occasion she was 
unluckily out, taking advantage of the 
protection of her ladyship’s maid in get- 
ting a little air. Lady Linlithgow had 
also been awa}’’, and Lady Fawn had seen 
no one. Afterw'ards, both Lucy and her 
ladyship were found at home, and Lady 
Fawn was full of graciousness and afiec- 
tion. “ I dare say you’ve got something 
to say to each other,” said Lady Linlith- 
gow, “ and I’ll go away.” 

“ Pray don’t let us disturb you,” said 
Lady Fawn. 

“ You’d only abuse me if I didn’t,” 
said Lady Linlithgow. 

As soon as she was gone Lucy rushed 
into her friend’s arms. “ It is so nice to 
see you again !” 

“ Yes, my dear, isn’t it? I did come 
before, jmu know.” 

“ You have been so good to me! To 
see you again is like the violets and prim- 
roses.” She was crouching close to Lady 
Fawn, with her hand in that of her friend 
Lydia. “ I haven’t a word to say against 
Lady Linlithgow, but it is like winter 
here, after dear Richmond.” 

“ Well, we .think we’re prettier at 
Richmond,” said Lady Fawn. 

“ There were such hundreds of things 
to do there,” said Lucy. “ After all, 
what a comfort it is to have things to 
do.” 

“Why did you come away?” said 
Lydia. 

“ Oh, I was obliged. You mustn’t 
scold me now that you have come to see 
me.” 

There were a hundred things to be said 
about Fawn Court and the children, and a 
hundred more things about Lady Linlith- | 
gow and Bruton street. Then, at last, | 
Lady Fawn asked the one important ques- ' 


tion. “ And now, my dear, what about 
Mr. Greystock?’* 

“ Oh, I don’t know; nothing particular. 
Lady Fawn. It’s just as it was, and I 
am — quite satisfied.” 

“ You see him sometimes.” 

“ No, never. I have not seen him since 
the last time he came down to Richmond. 
Lady Linlithgow doesn’t allow — follow- 
ers.” There was a pleasant little spark 
of laughter in Lucy’s eye as she said this, 
which would have told to any bys.tander 
the whole story of the affection which ex- 
isted between her and Lady Fawn. 

“ That’s very ill-natured,” said Lydia. 

“ And he’s a sort of cousin, too,” said 
Lady Fawn. 

“ That’s just the reason why,” said 
Lucy, explaining. “ Of coui*se Lady Lin- 
lithgow thinks that her sister’s nephew 
can do better than marry her companion. 
It’s a matter of course she should think 
so. What I am. most afraid of is that the 
dean and ^Mrs. Greystock should think so 
too.” 

No doubt the dean and Mrs. Greystock 
would think so. Lady Fawn was very 
sure of that. Lady Fawn was one of the 
best women breathing, unselfish, mother- 
ly, affectionate, appreciative, and never 
happy unless she was doing good to some- 
body. It was her nature to be .soft, and 
kind, and beneficent. But she knew very 
well that if she had had a son, a second 
son, situated as was Frank Greystock, she 
would not wish him to marry a girl with- 
out a penny, who was forced to earn her 
bread by being a governess. The sacrifice 
on Mr. Greystock’s part would, in her es- 
timation, be so great, that she did not be- 
lieve that it would be made. Woman- 
like, she regarded the man as being so 
much more important than the woman 
that she could not think that Frank Grey- 
stock would devote himself sim23ly to such 
a one as Lucy Morris. Had Lady Fawn 
been asked which was the better creature 
of the two, her late governess or the rising 
barrister who had declared himself to be 
that governess’s lover, she would have 
said that no man could be better than 
Lucy. She knew Lucy’s worth and good- 
ness so well that she was ready herself to 
do any act of friendship on behalf of one 
so sweet and excellent. For herself and 
her girls Lucy was a companion and friend 
in every way satisfactory. But was it 
probable that a man of the world, such as 


204 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


was Frank Grej^stock, a rising man, a 
member of Parliament, one who, as every- 
body knew, was especially in want of 
money — was it probable that such a man as 
this would make her his wife just because 
she was good, and worthy, and sweet- 
natured ? No doubt the man had said that 
he would do so, and Lady Fawn’s fears be- 
trayed on her lad^^ship’s part a very bad 
opinion of men in general. It may seem 
to be a paradox to assert that such bad 
opinion sprung from the high idea which 
she entertained of the importance of men 
in general ; but it was so. She had but 
one son, and of all her children he was the 
least worthy ; but he was more important 
to her than all her daughters. Between 
her own girls and Lucy she hardly made 
any difference ; but when her son had 
chosen to quarrel with Lucy, it had been 
necessary to send Lucy to eat her meals 
up staii-s. She could not believe that Mr. 
Greystock should think so much of such 
a little girl as to marry her. Mr. Grey- 
stock would no doubt behave very badly 
in not doing so ; but then men do so often 
behave very badly ! And at the bottom 
of her heart she almost thought that they 
might be excused for doing so. Accord- 
ing to her view of things, ^ man out in 
the world had so many things to think of, 
and was so very important, that he could 
hardly be expected to act at all times with 
truth and sincerity. 

Lucy had suggested that the dean and 
Mrs. Greystock would dislike the marriage, 
and upon that hint Lady Fawn spoke. 
“ Nothing is settled, I suppose, as to 
where you are to go when the six months 
are over ? ” 

“ Nothing as yet. Lady Fawn.” 

“ They haven’t asked you to go toBobs- 
borough ?” 

Lucy would have given the world \i6t to 
blush as she answered, but she did blush. 
“ Nothing is fixed. Lady Fawn.” 

“ Something should be fixed, Lucy. It 
should be settled by this time, shouldn’t 
it, dear? What will you do without a 
home, if at the end of the six mbnths 
Lady Linlithgow should say that she 
doesn’t want you any more?” 

Lucy certainly did not look forward to*a 
condition in which Lady Linlithgow should 
be the arbitress of her destiny. The idea 
of staying with the countes's was almost 
as bad to her as that of finding herself alto- 
gether homeless. She was^Ttill blushing. 


feeling herself to be hot and embarrassed. 
But Lady Fawn sat waiting for an answer. 
To Lucy there was only one answer possi- 
ble. “ I will ask Mr. Greystock what I 
am to do.” Lady Fawn shook her head. 
“ You don’t believe in Mr. Greystock, 
Lady Fawn ; but I do.” 

“ My darling girl,” said her ladyship, 
making the special speech for the sake of 
making which she had travelled up from 
Richmond, “it is not exactly a question 
of belief, but one of common prudence. 
No girl should allow herself to depend on 
a man before she is married to him. By 
doing so she will be apt to lose even his 
respect.” 

“ I didn’t mean for money,” said Lucy, 
hotter than ever, with her ej’es full of 
tears. 

“ She should not be in any respect at 
his disposal till he has bound himself to 
her at the altar. You may believe me, 
Lucy, when I tell you so. It is only be- 
cause I love you so that I say so.’ 

“ I know that, Lady Fawn.” 

“ When your time here is over, just put 
up your things and come back to Rich- 
mond. You need fear nothing with us. 
Frederic quite liked your way of parting 
with him at last, and all that little affair 
is forgotten. At Fawn Court you’ll be 
safe ; and you shall be happy, too, if we 
can make you happy. It’s the proper 
place for you.” 

“ Of course you’ll come,” said Diana 
Fawn. 

“ You’ll be the worst little thing in the 
world if you don’t,” said Lydia. “We 
don’t know what to do without you. Do 
we, mamma?” 

“ Lucy will please us all by coming 
back to her old home,” said Lady Fawn. 
The tears were now streaming down 
Lucy’s face, so that she was hardly able 
' to say a word in answer to all this kind- 
nevss. And she did not know what word 
to say. Were she to accept the offer made 
to her, and acknowledge that she could do 
nothing better than creep back under her 
old friend's wing, would she not thereby 
be showing that she doubted her lover ? 
But she could not go to the dean’s house 
unlass the dean and his wife h’ere pleased 
to take her; and, suspecting as she did 
that they would not be pleased, would it 
become her to throw upon her lover the 
burden of 'finding for her a home with 
people who' did not want her? Had she 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


205 


been welcome at Bobsborough, Mi-s. Grey- 
stock would surely have so told her before 
this. “ You needn’t say a word, my 
dear,” said Lady Fawn. “ You’ll come, 
and there’s an end of it.” 

“But don’t want me any more,” 
said Lucy from amid her sobs. 

“That’s just all that you know about 
it,” said Lydia. “ ^Ye do want you — 
more than anything.” 

“ I wonder whether 1 may come in 
now,” said Lady Linlithgow, entering the 
room. • As it was the countess’s own 
drawing-room, as it was now midwinter, 
and as the fire in the dining-room had 
been allowed, as was usual, to sink al- 
most to two hot coals, the request was not 
unreasonable. Lady Fawn was profuse in 
her thanks, and immediately began to ac- 
count for Lucy’s tears, pleading their dear 
friendship and their long absence, and 
poor Lucy’s emotional state of mind. 
Then she took her leave, and Lucy, as 
soon as she had been kissed by her friends 
outside the drawing-room door, took her- 
self to her bedroom and finished her teai-s 
in the cold. 

“Have you heard the news?” said 
Lady Linlithgow to her companion about 
a month after this. Lady Linlithgow had 
been out, and asked the question immedi- 
ately on her return. Lucy,' of course, had 
heard no news. “ Lizzie Eustace has just 
come back to London, and has had all her 
jewels stolen on the road.” 

“The diamonds?” asked Lucy with 
amaze. 

“Yes, the Eustace diamonds! And 
they didn’t belong to her any more than 
they did to you. They’ve been taken any 
way, and from what I hear I shouldn’t be 
at all surprised if she had arranged the 
whole matter lierself.” 

“ Arranged that they should be stolen ?” 

“Just that, my dear. It would be the 
very thing for Lizzie Eustace to do. She’s 
clever enough for anything.” 

“ But, Lady Linlithgow ” 

“ I know all about that. Of course it 
would be very wicked, and if it were 
found out she’d be put in the dock and 
tried for her life. It is just what I ex- 
pect she’ll come to some of these days. 
She has gone and got up a friendship with 
some disreputable people, and was travel- 
ling with them. There was a man who 
iMills himself Lord George de Bruce Car- 
ruthers. I know him, and can remember 


when he was errand boy to a disreputable 
lawyer at Aberdeen. ’ ’ This assertion was 
a falsehood on the part of the countess 
Lord George had never been an errand 
boy, and the Aberdeen lawyer — as pro- 
vincial Scotch lawyers go — had been by 
no means disreputable. “I’m told that 
the police think that he has got them.” 

“ How very dreadful ! ” 

“Yes; it’s dreadful enough. At any 
rate, men got into Lizzie’s room at night 
and took away the iron box and diamonds 
and all. It may be she was asleep at the 
time ; but she's one of those who pretty 
nearly always sleep with one eye open.” 

“ She can’t be so bad as that, Lady Lin- 
litogow.” 

“ Perhaps not. We shall see. They 
had just begun a lawsuit about the dia- 
monds, to get them back. And then all 
at once they’re stolen. It looks what the 
men call — fishy. I’m told that all the po 
lice in London are up about it.” 

On the very next day who should come 
to Brook street but Lizzie Eustace her 
self. She and her aunt had quarrelled, 
an5 they hated each other ; bc(t the old 
woman had called upon Lizzie, advising 
her, as the reader will perhaps remember, 
to give up the diamonds, and now Lizzie 
returned the visit. “So you’re here, in- 
stalled in poor Macnulty’s place,” began 
Lizzie to her old friend, the countess at 
the moment being out of the room. ,,, 

“lam staying with your aunt for a few 
months as her companion. Is it true, 
Lizzie, that all your diamonds have been 
stolen?” Lizzie gave an account of the 
robbery, true in every respect except in 
regard to the contents of the box. Poor 
Lizzie had been wronged in that matter 
by the countess, for the robbery had been 
quite genuine. The man had opened her 
room and taken her box, and she had slept 
through it all. And then the broken box 
had been found, and was in the hands of 
the police, and was evidence of the fact. 

“ People seem to think it possible,” said 
Lizzie, “ that Mr. Camperdown the law- 
yer arranged it all.” As this suggestion 
was being made. Lady Linlithgow came 
in, and then Lizzie repeated the whole 
story of the robbery. Though the aunt 
and niece were open and declared enemies, 
the present circumstances were so pecu- 
liar and full of interest, that conversation 
for a time almost amicable took place be- 
tween them. “ As the diamonds were so 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


SC6 

valuable, I thought it right, Aunt Susan- 
na, to come and tell you myself.” 

“ It’s very good of you, but I’d heard it 
already. I was telling Miss Morris yes- 
terday what very odd things there are be- 
ing said about it.” 

“ Weren’t you very much frightened? ” 
asked Lucy. 

“ You see, my child, I knew nothing 
about it till it was all over. The man cut 
the bit out of the door in the most beauti- 
ful way, without my ever hearing the 
least sound of the saw.” 

“ And you that sleep so light,” said the 
countess. 

“ They say that perhaps something was 
put into the wine at dinner to make me 
sleep.” 

‘"Ah!” ejaculated the countess, who 
did not for a moment give up her own er- 
roneous suspicion-; “ very likely.” 

“ And they do say these people can do 
things without making the slightest tittle 
of noise. At any rate the box was 
gone.” 

“ And the diamonds?” asked Lucy. 

“Oh yes, of course. And now there 
is such a fuss about it ! The police keep 
on coming to me almost every day.” 

“ And what do the police think? ” ask- 
ed Lady Linlithgow. “I am told that 
they have their suspicions.” 

“ No doubt they have their suspicions,” 
said Lizzie. 

“ You travelled up with friends, I sup- 
pose.” 

“Oh yes, with Lord George de Bruce 
Carruthers ; and with Mrs. Carbuncle, 
who is my particular friend, and with Lu- 
cinda Roanoke, who is just going to be 
married to Sir GriflBn Tewett. We were 
quite a large party.” 

“ And Macnulty ? ” 

“No. I left Miss Macnulty at Portray 
with my darling. They thought he had 
better remain a little longer in Scotland.” 

“Ah, yes; perhaps Lord George de 
Bruce Carruthers does not care for babies. 
I can easily believe that. I wish Macnul- 
ly had been with you.” 

“ Why do you wish that? ” said Lizzie, 
who already was beginning to feel that 
the countess intended, as usual, to make 
herself disagreeable. 

“ She’s a stupid, dull, pig-headed crea- 
ture ; but one can believe what she says.” 

“And don’t j’ou l)elieve what I say?” 
demanded Lizzie. 


“ It’s all true, no doubt, that the dia- 
monds are gone.” 

“ Indeed it is.” 

“ But I don’t know much about Lord 
George de Bruce Carruthers.” 

“ He’s the brother of a marquis, any- 
way,” said Lizzie, who thought that she 
might thus best answer the mother of a 
Scotch earl. 

‘ ‘ I remember when he was plain George 
Carruthers, running about the streets of 
Aberdeen, and it was well with him when 
his shoes weren’t broken at the foes and 
down at heel, lie earned his bread then, 
such as it was. Nobody knows how he 
gets it now. AVhy does he call himself de 
Bruce, I wonder?” 

“ Because his godfathers and godmoth- 
ers gave him that name when he was 
made a child of Christ, and an inheritor 
of the kingdom of heaven,” said Lizzie, 
ever so pertly. 

“ I don’t believe a bit of it.” 

“I wasn’t there to see. Aunt Susanna ; 
and therefore I can’t swear to it. That’s 
his name in all the peerages, and I sup- 
pose they ought to know.” 

“ And what does Lord George de Bruce 
say about the diamonds? ” 

Now it had come to pass that Lady Eus- 
tace herself did not feel altogether sure 
that Lord George had not had a hand in 
this robbery. It would have been a trick 
worthy of a genuine Corsair, to arrange 
and carry out such a scheme for the ap- 
propriation of so rich a spoil. A watch 
or a brooch would, of course, be beneath 
the notice of a good genuine Corsair — of a 
Corsair who was written down in the 
peerage as a marquis’s brother ; but dia- 
monds worth ten thousand pounds are not 
to be had every day. A Corsair must 
live, and if not by plunder rich as tliat, 
how then? If Lord George had con- 
cocted this little scheme, he would natu- 
rally be ignorant of the true event o^the 
robbery till he should meet tlie humble 
executors of his design, and would, as 
Lizzie thought, have remained unaware 
of the truth till his arrival in London. 
That he had been ignorant of the trut i 
during the journey was evident to her. 
But they had now been three days in Lon- 
don, during which she had seen him once. 
At that interview he had been sullen and 
almost cross, and had said next to nothing 
about the robbery. ‘He made but one re- 
mark about it. “1 have told the chief 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


207 


man here,” he said, “ that I shall be 
ready to give any evidence in my power 
when called upon. Till then I shall take 
no further steps in the matter. I have 
been asked questions that should not have 
been asked.” In saying this he had used 
a tone Avhich prevented further conversa- 
tion on the subject, but Lizzie, as she 
thought of it all, remembered his jocular 
remark, made in the railway carriage, as 
to the suspicion which had already been 
expressed on the matter in regard to him- 
self. If he had been the perpetrator, and 
had then found that he had only stolen 
the box, how wonderful would be the 
m3’stery I “He hasn’t got anything to 
saj',” replied Lizzie to the question of the 
countess. 

“And who is j’our Mrs. Carbuncle?” 
asked the old worfian. 

“ A particular friend of mine with 
whom I am staying at present. You don’t 
go about a great deal, Aunt Linlithgow, 
but surely j^ou must have met Mrs. Car- 
buncle.” 

“ I’m an ignorant old woman, no doubt. 
My dear, I’m not at all surprised at j’^our 
losing 3^our diamonds. The pity is that 
tliey weren’t j’our own.” 

“ They were my own.” 

“ The loss will fall on j'ou, no doubt, 
because the Eustace people will make you 
pay for them. You’ll have to give up 
half 3'our jointure for jmur life. That’s 
what it will come to. To think of your 
travelling about with those things in a 
box! ” 

“ They were my own, and I had a right 
to do what I liked with them. Nobody 
accuses 3^0 u of taking them.” 

“ That’s quite true. Nobody will ac- 
cuse me. I suppose Lord George has left 
England for the benefit of his health. It 
would not at all suiqjrise me if I were to 
hear that Mrs. Carbuncle had followed 
him; not in the least.” 

“You’re just like 3’ourself, Aunt Su- 
sanna,” said Lizzie, getting up and tak- 
ing her leave. “ Good-by, Lucy. I hope 
3mu’re happy and comfortable here. Do 
you ever see a certain friend of ours 
now? ” 

“ If you mean Mr. Gre3'stock, I haven’t 
seen him since I left Fawn Court,” said 
Luc 3’’, with dignit3'. 

When Lizzie was gone Lady Linlithgow 
spoke her mind freely about her niece. 

‘ Lizzie Eustace won’t come to any good. 


When I heard that she was engaged to 
that prig. Lord Fawn, I had some hopes 
that she might be kept out of harm. 
That’s all over, of course. When he 
heard about the necklace he wasn’t going 
to put his neck into that scrape. But 
now she’s getting among such a set that 
nothing can save her. She has taken to 
hunting, and rides about the country like 
a mad woman.” 

“A great many ladies hunt,” said 
Lucy. 

“ And she’s got hold of this Lord 
George, and of that horrid American 
woman that nobody knows anything 
about. They’ve got the diamonds between 
them, I don’t doubt. I’ll bet 3"ou six- 
pence that the police find out all about it, 
and that there is some terrible scandal. 
The diamonds were no more hers than 
they were mine, and she'll be made to pay 
for them.” 

The necklace, the- meanwhile, was still 
locked up in Lizzie's desk — with a patent 
Bramah ke3" — in I\Irs. Carbuncle’s house, 
and were a terrible trouble to our un- 
happy friend. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

MATCHING PRIORY. 

Before the end of January everybody 
in London had heard of the great rob- 
bery at Carlisle ; and most people had 
heard also that there was something very 
peculiar in the matter — something more 
than a robbery. Various rumors were 
afloat. It had become widely known that 
the diamonds were to be the subject of 
litigation between the young widow and 
the trustees of the Eustace estate ; and it 
was known also that Lord Fawn had en- 
gaged himself to marry the' widow, and 
had then retreated from his engagement 
simply on account of this litigation. 
There were strong parties formed in the 
matter ; whom we may call Lizzieites and 
Antilizzieites. The Lizzieites were of 
opinion that poor Lady Eustace was being 
very ill-treated — that the diamonds did 
probably belong to her, and that Lord 
Fawn, at any rate, clearly ought to be 
her own. It was worthy of remark that 
these Lizzieites were all of them Con- 
servatives. Frank Gre3\stock had prob- 
ably set the party on foot ; and it was 
natural that political opponents should 
believe that a noble 3^oung Under-Secre- 


208 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


tary of State on the liberal side — such as 
Lord Fawn — had misbehaved himself. 
When the matter at last became of such 
importance as to demand leading articles 
in the newspapers, those journals wdiich 
had devoted themselves to upholding the 
conservative politicians of the day were 
very heavy indeed upon Lord Fawn. The 
w^hole force of the Government, however, 
was Antilizzieite ; and as the controversy 
advanced every good Liberal became 
aware that there was nothing so wicked, 
so rapacious, so bold, or so cunning but 
that Lady Eustace might have done it, or 
caused it to be done, without delay, with- 
out difficulty, and without scruple. Lady 
Glencora Palliser for a while endeavored 
to defend Lizzie in liberal circles — from 
generosity rather than from any real be- 
lief, and instigated, perhaps, by a feeling 
that any woman in society who was ca- 
pable of doing anything extraordinary 
ought to be defended. But even Lady 
Glencora was forced to abandon her gen- 
erosity, and to confess, on behalf of her 
party, that Lizzie Eustace was — a very 
wicked young woman indeed. All this, 
no doubt, grew out of the diamonds, and 
chiefly arose from the robbery ; but there 
had been enough of notoriety attached to 
Lizzie before the affair at Carlisle to make 
people fancy that they had understood her 
character long before that. 

The party assembled at Matching 
Priory, a country house belonging to Mr. 
Palliser, in which Lady Glencora took 
much delight, was not large, because Mr. 
Palliser’s uncle, the Duke of Omnium, 
who was with them, was now a very old 
man, and one who did not like very large 
gatherings of people. Lord and Lady 
Chiltern were there — that Lord Chiltern 
who had been known so long and so well 
in the hunting counties of England, and 
that Lady Chiltern who had been so 
popular in London as the beautiful Violet 
Effingham ; and Mr. and Mrs. Grey were 
there, very particular friends of Mr. 
Palliser’s. Mr. Grey was now sitting for 
the borough of Silverbridge, in which the 
Duke of Omnium was still presumed to 
have a controlling influence, in ‘spite of 
all Reform bills, and Mrs. Grey was in 
some distant way connected with Lady 
Glencora. And Madame Max Goesler 
was there — a lady whose society was still 
much affected by the old duke ; and Mr. 
and Mrs. Bon teen — Avho had been brought 


there, not perhaps altogether because 
they were greatly loved, but in order that 
the gentleman’s services might be made 
available by Mr. Palliser in reference to 
some great reform about to be introduced 
in monetary matters. Mr. Palliser, who 
was now Chancellor of the Exchequer, 
was intending to alter the value of the 
penny. Unless the work should be too 
much for him, and he should die before 
he had accomplished the self-imposed 
task, the future penny w'as to be made, 
under his auspices, to contain five far- 
things, and the shilling ten pennies. It was 
thought that if this could be accomplished, 
the arithmetic of the whole world would 
be so simplified that henceforward the 
name of Palliser would be blessed by all 
schoolboy's, clerks, shopkeepers, and finan- 
ciers. But the difficulties were so great 
that Mr. Palliser’s hair was already gray 
from toil, and his shoulders bent by the 
burden imposed upon them. Mr. Bon- 
teen, with two private secretaries from 
the Treasury, was now at Matching to 
assist Mr. Palliser ; and it was thought 
that both Mr. and Mrs. Bon teen were 
near to madness under the pressure of the 
five-farthing penny. Mr. Bonteen had 
remarked to many of his political fripnds 
that those two extra farthings that could 
not be made to go into the shilling w'ould 
put him into his cold grave before the 
world would know what he had done — 
or had rewarded him for it with a handle 
to his name, and a pension. Lord Fawn 
was also at Matching — a suggestion hav- 
ing been made to Lady Glencora by some 
leading Liberals that he should be sup- 
ported in his difficulties by her hospitality. 

The mind of Mr. Palliser himself was 
too deeply engaged to admit of its being 
interested in the great necklace affair; 
but, of all the others assembled, there 
was not one who did not listen anxiously 
for ncM's on the subject. As regarded the 
old duke, it had been found to be quite a 
godsend ; and from post to post as the 
facts reached Matching they were com- 
municated to him. And, indeed, there 
were some there who would not wait fi)r 
the post, but had the news about poor 
Lizzie’s diamonds down by the wires. 
The matter was of the greatest moment 
to Lord Fawn, and Lady Glencora was 
perhaps justified, on his behalf, in de- 
manding a preference for her afliiirs over 
the messages which were continuallypass* 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


209 


ing between Matching and the Treasury 
respecting those two ill-conditioned far- 
things. 

“ Duke,” she said, entering rather ab- 
ruptly the small, warm, luxurious room in 
w'hicli her husband’s uncle was passing 
the morning — “ Duke, they say now that 
after all the diamonds were not in the box 
when it was taken out of the room at 
Carlisle.” The duke was reclining in an 
easy-chair, with his head leaning forward 
on his breast, and Madame Goesler was 
reading to him. It was now three o’clock, 
and the old man had been brought down 
to this room after his breakfast. Madame 
Goesler was reading the last famous new 
novel, and the duke was dozing. That, 
probably, was the fault neither of the 
reader nor of the novelist, as the duke 
was wont to doze in these days. But 
Lady Giencoi'a’s tidings awakened him 
completely. She had the telegram in her 
hand — so that he could perceive that the 
very latest news was brought to him. 

‘‘The diamonds not in the box!” he 
said — ^pushing his head a little more 
forward in his eagerness, and sitting wdth 
the extended fingers of his two hands 
touching each other. 

“ Barrington Erie says that Major 
Mackintosh is almost sure the diamonds 
were not there.” Major Mackintosh was 
an officer very high in the police force, 
whom everybody trusted implicitly, and 
as to whom the outward world believed 
that he could discover the perpetrators of 
any iniquity, if he wwld only take the 
trouble to look into it. Such was the 
pressing nature of his duties that he found 
himself compelled in one way or another 
to give up about sixteen hours a day to 
them ; but the outer world accused him 
of idleness. There was nothing he 
couldn’t find out — only he would not give 
himself the trouble to find out all the 
things that happened. Two or three 
newspapers had already been very hard 
upon him in regard to the Eustace dia- 
monds. Such a mystery as that, they 
said, he ought to have unravelled long 
ago. That he had not unravelled it j’et 
was quite certain. 

“The diamonds not in the box!” 
said the duke. 

“ Then she must have known it,” said 
Madame Goesler. 

“That doesn’t quite follow, Madame 
Max,” said I^ady Glencora. 

14 


“ But why shouldn’t the diamonds have 
been in the box?” asked the duke. As 
this was the first intimation given to Lady 
Glencora of any suspicion that the dia- 
monds had not been taken with the box, 
and as this had been received by tele- 
graph, she could not answer the duke’s 
question with any clear exposition of her 
own. She put up her hands and shook 
her head. What does Plantagenet 
think about it?” asked the duke. Plan- 
tagenet Palliser was the full name of the 
duke’s nephew and heir. The duke’s 
mind was evidently much disturbed. 

“ He doesn’t think that either the box or 
the diamonds were ever worth five lar- 
things,” said Lady Glencora. 

“ The diamonds not in the box!” re- 
peated the duke. “ Madame Max, do 
you believe that the diamonds were not 
in the box ?” Madame Goesler shrugged 
her shoulders and made no answer; but 
the shrugging of her shoulders was quite 
satisfactory to the duke, who always 
thought that Madame Goesler did everj'- 
thing better than anybody else. Lady 
Glencora staid with her uncle for the 
best part of an hour, and every word 
spoken was devoted to Lizzie and her 
necklace ; but as this new idea had beest 
broached, and as they had no other in- 
formation than that conveyed in the tele- 
gram, very little light could be thrown 
upon it. But on the next morning there 
came a letter from Barrington Erie to 
Lady Glencora, which told so much, and 
hinted so much more, that it will be well 
to give it to the reader. 

“Travellers’, 29 Jan., 180 — 

“ My dear Lady Glencora : I hope 
you got my telegram j^esterday. 1 had 
just seen Mackintosh, on whose behalf, 
however, I must say that he told me as 
little as he possibly could. It is leaking- 
out, however, on every side, that the po- 
lice believe that when the box was taken 
out of the room at Carlisle, the diamonds 
were not in it. As far as I can learn, 
they ground this suspicion on the fact that 
they cannot trace the stones. They say 
that, if such a lot of diamonds had ])een 
through the thieves’ market in London, 
they would have left some track behind 
them. As far as I can judge. Mackintosh 
thinks that Lord George has them, but 
that her ladyship gave them to him ; and 
that this little game of the robbery at 


210 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Carlisle was planned to put John Eus- 
tace and the lawyers off the scent. If it 
should turn out that the box was opened 
before it left Portray, that the door of her 
ladyship’s room was cut by her ladyship’s 
self, or by his lordship with her lady- 
ship’s aid, and that the fragments of the 
box were carried out of the hotel by his 
lordship in person, it will altogether have 
been so delightful a plot, that all con- 
cerned in it ought to be canonized or at 
least allowed to keep their plunder. An 
old detective told me that the opening 
of the box under the arch of the rail- 
way, in an exposed place, could hardly 
have been executed so neatly as was done ; 
that no thief so situated would have given 
the time necessary to it ; and that, if 
there had been thieves at all at, work, 
they would have been traced. Against 
this, there is the certain fact, as 1 have 
heard from various men engaged in the 
inquiry, that certain persons among the 
community of thieves are very much at 
loggerheads with each other, the higher, 
or creative department in thiefdom, accus- 
ing the lower or mechanical department 
of gross treachery in having appropriated 
to its own sole profit plunder, for the 
taking of which it had undertaken to re- 
ceive a certain stipulated price. But 
then it may be the case that his lordship 
and her ladyship have set such a rumor 
abroad for the sake of putting the police 
off the scent. Upon the whole, the little 
mystery is quite delightful ; and has put 
the ballot, and poor Mr. Palliser’s five- 
farthinged penny, quite out of joint. No- 
body now cares for anything except the 
Eustace diamonds. Lord George, I am 
told, has offered to fight everybody or 
anybody, beginning with Lord Fawn and 
ending with Major Mackintosh. Should 
he be innocent, which of course is possi- 
ble, the thing must be annoying. I 
should not at all wonder myself if it 
should turn out that her ladyship left 
them in Scotland. The place there, how- 
ever, has been searched, in compliance 
with an order from the police and by her 
lad^^ship’s consent. 

“ Don’t let Mr. Palliser quite kill him- 
self. I hope the Bonteen plan answers. 
I never knew a man who could find more 
farthings in a shilling than Mr, Bonteen. 
Remember me very kindly to the duke, 
and pray enable poor Fawn to keep up 
his spirits. If he likes to arrange a meet- 


ing with Lord George, I shall be only too 
happy to be his friend. You remember 
our last duel. Chiltern is with you, and 
can put Fawn up to the proper way of 
getting over to Flanders, and of returning, 
should he chance to escape. 

“ Yours always most faithfully, 

“ Barrington Erle. 

“ Of course I’ll keep you posted in 
everything respecting the necklace till 
you come to town yourself.” 

The whole of this letter Lady Glencora 
read to the duke, to Lady Chiltern, and to 
Madame Goesler ; and the principal con- 
tents of it she repeated to the entire com- 
pany. It was certainly the general be- 
lief at Matching that Lord George had 
the diamonds in his possession, either 
with or without the assistance of their 
late fair possessor. 

The Quke was struck with awe when he 
thought of all the circumstances. “ The 
brother of a marquis!” he said to his 
nephew’s wife. “ It’s such a disgrace to 
the peerage I ” 

“As for that, duke,” said Lady Glen- 
cora, “ the peerage is used to it by this 
time.” 

“ I never heard of such an affair as this 
before.” 

“ I don’t see why the brother of a 
marquis shouldn’t turn thief as well as 
anybody else. They say he hasn’t got 
anything of his own ; and I suppose that 
is what makes men steal other people’s 
property. Peers go into trade, and peer- 
esses gamble on the Stock Exchange. 
Peers become bankrupt, and the sons of 
peers run away, just like other men. I 
don’t see why all enterprises should not 
be open to them. But to think of that 
little purring cat. Lady Eustace, having 
been so very — very clever ! It makes me 
quite envious.” 

All this took place in the morning — 
that is, alxtut two o’clock ; but after din- 
ner the subject became general. There 
might be some little reticence in regard to 
Lord Fawn’s feelings, but it was not suf- 
ficient to banish a subject so interesting 
from the minds and lips of the company. 
“ The Tewett marriage is to come off, 
after all,” said Mrs. Bonteen. “ I’ve a 
letter from dear Mrs. Rutter, telling me 
so as a fact.” 

“I wonder whether Miss Roanoke will 
be allowed to wear one or two of the dia- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


211 


monds at the wedding,” suggested one of 
the private^secretaries. 

“ Nobody will dare to wear a diamond 
at all next season,” said Lady Glencora. 

“ As for my own, I shan’t think of having 
them out. I should alwa3’s feel that I 
was being inspected.” 

“ Unless they unravel the mystery,” 
said ^ladame Goesler. 

“I hope they won’t do that,” said 
Lady Glencora. “ The play is too good 
to come to an end so soon. If we hear 
that Lord George is engaged to Lady Eus- 
tace, nothing, I suppose, can be done to 
stop the marriage.” 

“ AThy shouldn’t slie marry if she 
pleases?” asked Mr. Palliser. 

“ I’ve not the slightest objection to her 
being married. I hope she will, with all 
my heart. I certainly think she should 
have her husband after buying him at 
such a price. I suppose Lord Fawn won’t 
forbid the banns.” These last words 
were only whispered to her next neigh- 
bor, Lord Chiltern; but poor Lord Fawn 
saw the whisper, and was aware that it 
must have had reference to his condition. 

On the next morning there came 
further news. The police had asked per- 
mission from their occupants to search 
the rooms in which lived Lady Eustace 
and Lord George, and in each case the 
permission had been refused. So said 
Barrington Erie in his letter to Lady 
Glencora. Lord George had told the ap- 
plicant, very roughly, that nobody should 
touch an article belonging to him without 
a search-warrant. If any magistrate 
w’ould dare to give such a warrant, let 
him do it. “ I’m told that Lord George 
acts the indignant madman uncommonly 
well,” said Barrington Erie in his letter. 

As for poor Lizzie, she had fainted when 
the proposition was made to her. The 
request w'as renewed as soon as she had 
been brought to herself; and then she 
refused, on the advice, as she said, of her 
cousin, Mr. Greystock. Barrington Erie 
went on to say that the police were very 
much blamed. It was believed that no 
information could be laid before a magis- 
trate sufficient to j ustify a search-warrant ; ‘ 

and, in such circumstances, no search 
should have been attempted. Such was 
the public verdict, as declared in Barring- 
ton Erie’s last letter to Lady Glencora. 

Mr. Palliser was of opinion that the at- 
tempt to search the lady’s house was 


iniquitous. Mr. Bon teen shook his head, 
and rather thought that, if he were Home 
Secretary, he would have had the search 
made. Lady Chiltern said that, if police- 
men came to her, they might search every- 
thing she had in the world. Mrs. Grey 
reminded them that all they really knew 
of the unfortunate woman was, that her 
jewel-box had been stolen out of her l)e;!- 
room at her hotel. INIadame Goesler was of 
opinion that a lady who could carry such 
a box about the countrj^ with her deserved 
to have it stolen. Lord Fawn felt him- 
self obliged to confess that he agreed al- 
together with Madame Goesler. Unfortu- 
nately, he had been acquainted with the 
lady, and now was constrained to say that 
her conduct had been such as to justify 
the suspicions of the police. “ Of course 
we all suspect her,” said Lady Glencora, 
“ and of course we suspect Lord George 
too ; and Mrs. Carbuncle and Miss 
Roanoke. But then, j^ou know, if I were 
to lose my diamonds, people would sus- 
pect me just the same, or perhaps Plan- 
tagenet. It is so delightful to think that 
a woman has stolen her own property, 
and put all the police into a state of fer- 
ment.” Lord Chiltern declared himself 
to be heartily sick of the whole subject ; 
and Mr. Grey, who was a very just man, 
suggested that the evidence, as yet, 
against anj'body, was very slight. “ Of 
course it’s slight,” said Lady Glencora. 

“ If it w'ere more than slight, it would be 
just like any other robbery, and there 
would be nothing in it.” On the same 
morning Mrs. Bonteen received a second 
letter from her friend Mrs. Rutter. The 
Tewett marriage had been certainly broken 
off. Sir Griffin had been very violent, 
misbehaving himself grossly in INIrs. Car- 
buncle’s house, and Miss Roanoke had 
declared that under no circumstances 
would she ever speak to him again. It 
was Mrs. Rutter’s opinion, however, that 
this violence had been “ put on ” by Sir 
Griffin, who was desirous of escaping 
from the marriage because of the affair of 
the diamonds. “ He’s very much bound 
up with Lord George,” said Mrs. Rutter, 
“and is afraid that he may be impli- 
cated.” 

“ In my opinion he’s quite right,” said 
Lord Fawn. 

All these matters were told to the duke 
by Lady Glencora and Madame Goesler in 
the recasses of his grace’s private room ; 


212 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


for the duke was now infirm, and did not 
dine in company unless the day was very 
auspicious to him. But in the evening 
he would creep into the drawing-room, 
and on this occasion he had a word to say 
about the Eustace diamonds to every one 
in the, room. It was admitted by them 
all that the robbery had been a godsend in 
the way of amusing the duke. “ Wouldn’t 
have her boxes searched, you know,” said 
the duke. “ That looks uncommonly sus- 
picious. Perhaps, Lady Chiltern, we 
shall hear to-morrow morning something 
more about it.” 

“ Poor dear duke,” said Lady Chiltern 
to her husband. 

‘ Doting old idiot ! ” he replied. 


CHAPTER XLVHI. 
lizzie’s condition. / 

When such a man as Barrington Erie 
undertakes to send information to such a 
correspondent as Lady Glencora in refer- 
ence to such a matter as Lady Eustace’s 
diamonds, he is bound to be full rather 
than accurate. We may say, indeed, that 
perfect accuracy would be detrimental 
rather than otherwise, and would tend to 
disperse that feeling of mystery which is 
so gratifying.. No suggestion had in truth 
been made to Lord George de Bruce Car- 
ruthers as to the searching of his lord- 
ship’s boxes and desks. That very emi- 
nent detective officer, Mr. Bunfit, had, 
however, called upon Lord George more 
than once, and Lord George had declared 
very plainly that he did not like it. “ If 
you’ll have the kindness to explain to me 
what it is you want. I’ll be much obliged to 
j'ou,” Lord George had said to Mr. Bunfit. 

“ Well, my lord,” said Bunfit, “ what 
we want is these diamonds.” 

“ Do you believe that I’ve got them? ” 

“ A man in my situation, my lord, never 
believes anything. We has to suspect, but 
we never believes.” 

“ You suspect that I stole them.” 

“ No, my lord ; I didn’t say that. But 
things are very queer ; aren’t they ?” The 
immediate object of Mr. Bunfit’s visit on 
this morning had been to ascertain from 
Lord George whether it was true that his 
lordship had been with Messrs. Harter and 
Benjamin, the jewellers, on the morning 
after his arrival in town. No one from 
the police had as yet seen either Harter 


or Benjamin in connection with this rob- 
bery ; but it may not be too much to say 
that the argus eyes of Major Mackintosh 
were upon Messrs. Harter and Benjamin’s 
whole establishment, and it was believed 
that if the jewels were in London they 
were locked up in some box within that 
house. It was thought more than proba- 
ble by Major Mackintosh and his myrmi- 
dons, that the jewels were already at 
Hamburg ; and by this time, as the ma- 
jor had explained to Mr. Camperdown, 
every one of them might have been reset, 
or even recut. But it was known that 
Lord George had been at the house of 
Messrs. Harter and Benjamin early on the 
morning after his return to town, and the 
ingenuous Mr. Bunfit, who, by reason of 
his situation, never believed anything and 
only suspected, had expressed a very 
strong opinion to Major Mackintosh that 
the necklace had in truth been transferred 
to the Jews on that morning. That there 
was nothing “ too hot or too heavy ” for 
Messrs. Harter and Benjamin, was quite a 
creed with the police of the west end of 
London. Might it not be well to ask Lord 
George what he had to say about the 
visit ? Should Lord George deny the visit, 
such denial would go far to confirm Mr. 
Bunfit. The question was asked, and 
Lord George did not deny the visit. “ Un- 
fortunately they hold acceptances of 
mine,” said Lord George, “ and 1 am often 
there.” “We know as they have your 
lordship’s name to paper,” said Mr. Bun- 
fit, thanking Lord George, however, for 
his courtesy. It may be understood that 
all this would be unpleasant to Lord 
George, and that he should be indignant 
almost to madness. 

But Mr. Erie’s information, though cer- 
tainly defective in regard to Lord George 
de Bruce Carruthers, had been more cer- 
rect when he spoke of the lady. An in- 
terview that was very terrible to poor Liz- 
zie did take place between her and Mr. 
Bunfit in Mrs. Carbuncle’s house on Tues- 
day the 30th of January. There had been 
many interviews between Lizzie and vari- 
ous members of the police force in refer- 
ence to the diamonds, but the questions 
put to her had always been asked on the 
supposition that she might have mislaid 
the necklace. Was it not possible that 
she might have thought that she locked it 
up, but have omitted to place it in the 
box ? As long as these questions had ref- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


213 


erence to a possible oversight in Scotland, 
to some carelessness which she might have 
committed on the night before she left her 
home, Lizzie upon the whole seemed 
rather to like the idea. It certainly was 
possible. She believed thoroughly that 
the diamonds had been locked by her in 
the box, but she acknowledged that it 
might be the case that they had been left 
on one side. This had happened when 
the police first began to suspect that the 
necklace had not been in the box when it 
was carried out of the Carlisle hotel, but 
before it had occurred to them that Lord 
George had been concerned in the rob- 
bery, and possibly Lady Eustace herself. 
Men had been sent down from London, of 
course at considerable expense, and Por- 
tray Castle had been searched, with the 
consent of its owner, from the weather- 
cock to the foundation-stone, much to the 
consternation of Miss Macnulty and to the 
delight of Andy Gowran. No trace of the 
diamonds was found, and Lizzie had so 
far fraternized with the police. But when 
Mr. Bunfit called upon her, perhaps for 
the fifth or sixth time, and suggested that 
he should be allowed, with the assistance 
of the female whom he had left behind 
him in the hall, to search all her lady- 
ship’s boxes, drawers, presses, and recep- 
tacles in London, the thing took a very 
different aspect. “You see, my lady,” 
said Mr, Bunfit, excusing the peculiar na- 
ture of his request, “it may have got 
anywhere among your ladj^ship’s things 
unbeknownst.” Lady Eustace and Mrs. 
Carbuncle were at the time sitting to- 
gether, and Mrs. Carbuncle was the first 
to protest. If Mr. Bunfit thought that he 
was going to search her things, Mr. Bun- 
fit was very much mistaken. What she 
had suffered about this necklace no man 
or woman knew, and she meant that there 
should be an end of it. It was her opin- 
ion that the police should have discovered 
every stone of it days and days ago. At 
any rate her house was her own, and she 
gave Mr. Bunfit to understand that his 
repeated visits were not agreeable to her. 
But when Mr. Bunfit, without showing 
the slightest displeasure at the evil things 
said of him, suggested that the search 
should be confined to the rooms used ex- 
clusively by Lady Eustace, Mrs. Carbun- 
cle absolutely changed her views, and re- 
commended that he should be allowed to 
have his way 


At that moment the condition of poor 
Lizzie Eustace was very sad. He who re- 
counts these details has scorned to have a 
secret between himself and his readers. 
The diamonds were at this moment locked 
up within Lizzie’s desk. For the last 
three weeks they had been there— if it 
may not be more truly said that they were 
lying heavily on her heart. For three 
weeks had her mind with constant stretch 
been working on that point — whithei 
should she take the diamonds, and what 
should she do with them ? A certain very 
wonderful strength she did possess, or she 
could not have endured the weight of so 
terrible an anxiety; but from day to day 
the thing became worse and worse with 
her, as gradually she perceived that sus- 
picion was attached to herself. Should 
she confide the secret to Lord George, or 
to Mrs. Carbuncle, or to Frank Grey- 
stock ? She thought she could have borne 
it all if only some one would have borne it 
with her. But when the moments came 
in which such confidence might be made, 
her courage failed her. Lord George she 
saw frequently ; but he was unsympathet- 
ic and almost rough with her. She knew 
that he also was suspected, and she wa.*^ 
almost disposed to think that he had 
planned the robbery. If it were so, if the 
robbery had been his handiwork, it was 
not singular that he should be unsympa- 
thetic with the owner and probable holder 
of the prey which he had missed. Never- 
theless Lizzie thought that if he would 
have been soft with her, like a dear, good, 
genuine Corsair, for half an hour, she 
would have told him all, and placed the 
necklace in his hands. And there were 
moments in which she almost resolved to 
tell her secret to Mrs. Carbuncle. She 
had stolen nothing ; so she averred to her- 
self. She had intended only to defend and 
!;^ave her own property. Even the lie that 
she had told, and the telling of which was 
continued from day to day, had in a mea- 
sure been forced upon her by circumstan- 
ces. She thought that Mrs. Carbuncle 
would sympathize with her in that feeling 
which had prevented her from speaking 
the truth when first the fact of the rol> 
bery was made known to herself in her 
own bedroom. ]Mrs. Carbuncle was a lady 
who told many lies, as Lizzie well knew, 
and surely could not be horrified at a lie 
told in such circumstances. But it was 
not in Lizzie’s nature to trust a woman. 


214 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Mrs. Carbuncle would tell Lord George, 1 
and that would destroy everything. 
\Yhen she thought of confiding everything 
to her cousin, it was always in his ab- 
sence. The idea became dreadful to her 
as soon as he was present. She could not 
dare to own to him that she had sworn 
fiilsely to the magistrate at Carlisle. And 
so the burden had to be borne, increasing 
every hour in weight, and the poor crea- 
ture’s back was not broad enough to bear 
it. She thought of the necklace eveiy 
waking minute, and dreamed of it when 
she slept. She could not keep herself 
from unlocking her desk and looking at it 
twenty times a day, although she knew 
the peril of such nervous solicitude. If 
she could only rid herself of it altogether, 
she was sure now that she would do so. 
She would throw it into the ocean fathoms 
deep, if only she could find herself alone 
upon the ocean. But she felt that, let her 
go where she might, she would be watch- 
ed. She might declare to-morrow her in- 
tention of going to Ireland, or, for that 
matter, to America. But, were she to 
do so, some horrid policeman would be on 
her track. The iron box had been a terri- 
ble nuisance to her ; but the iron box had 
been as nothing compared to the necklace 
I»)cked up in her desk. From day to day 
she meditated a plan of taking the thing 
out into the streets and dropping it in the 
dark ; but she was sure that were she to 
do so some one would have watched her 
while she dropped it. She was unwilling 
to trust her old friend Mr. Benjamin ; but 
in these days her favorite scheme was to 
offer the diamonds for sale to him at some 
very low price. If he would help her, 
they might surely be got out of their pres- 
ent hiding-place into his hands. Any 
man would be powerful to help if there 
w'ere any man whom she could trust. In 
furthei*ance of this scheme she went so far 
as to break a brooch — a favorite brooch of 
her own — in order that she might have an 
excuse for calling at the jewellers’. But 
even this she postponed from day to day. 
(.'ircumstances, as they had occurred, had 
(aught her to believe that the police could 
not insist on breaking open her desk un- 
less some evidence could be brought 
against her. There was no evidence, and 
her desk was so far safe. But the same cir- 
cumstances had made her understand that 
she was already suspected of some in- 
trigue with reference to the diamonds — 


though of what she was suspected she did 
not clearly perceive. As far as she could 
divine the thoughts of her enemies, they 
did not seem to suppose that the diamonds 
were in her possession. It seemed to be 
believed by those enemies that they had 
passed into the hands of Lord George. As 
long as her enemies were on a scent so 
false, might it not be best that she should 
remain quiet? 

But all the ingenuity, the concentrated 
force, and trained experience of the police 
of London would surely be too great and 
powerful for her in the long run. She 
could not hope to keep her secret and 
the diamonds till they should acknowl- 
edge themselves to be baffled. 'And then 
she was aware of a morbid desire on her 
own part to tell the secret — of a desire that 
amounted almost to a disease. It would 
soon burst her bosom open, unless she 
could share her knowledge with some 
one. And yet, as she thought of it all, 
she told herself that she had no friend so 
fust and true as to justify such confidence. 
She was ill with anxiet}^ and — worse than 
that — Mrs. Carbuncle knew that she was 
ill. It was acknowledged between them 
that this affair of the necklace was so ter- 
rible as to mak6 a woman ill. Mrs. Car- 
buncle at present had been gracious enough 
to admit so much as that. But might it 
not be probable that Mrs. Carbuncle 
would come to suspect that she did not 
know the whole secret? Mrs. Carbuncle 
had already, on more than one occasion, 
said a little word or two which had been 
unpleasant. 

Such was Lizzie’s condition when Mr. 
Bunfit came, with his authoritative re- 
quest to be allowed to inspect Lizzie's 
boxes— and when Mrs. Carbuncle, having 
secured her own privacy, expressed her 
opinion that Mr. Bunfit should be allowed 
to do as he desired. 


CHAFFER XLIX 

BUNFIT AND GAGER. 

As soon as the words were out of Mrs. 
Carbuncle’s mouth — those ill-natured 
words in which she expressed her a.ssent 
to Mr. Bunfit’s proposition that a search 
should be made after the diamonds among 
all the possessions of Lady Eustace which 
were now lodged in her own house — poor 
Lizzie’s courage deserted her entirely 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


215 


She had been very courageous ; for, though 
her powers of endurance had sometimes 
nearly deserted her, though her heart had 
often failed her, still she had gone on 
and had endured and been silent. To en- 
dure and to be silent in her position did 
require great courage. She was all alone 
in her misery, and could see no way out 
of it. The diamonds were heavy as a 
load of lead within her bosom. And 
yet she had persevered. Now, as she 
heard Mrs. Carbuncle’s words, her cour- 
age failed her. There came some ob- 
struction in her throat, so that she 
could not speak. She felt as though 
her heart were breaking. She put out 
both her * hands and could not draw 
them back again. She knew that she 
was betraying herself by her weakness. 
She could just hear the man explaining 
that the search was merely a thing of 
ceremony— just to satisfy everybody that 
there was no mistake — and then she 
fainted. So far. Barrington Erie was cor- 
rect in the information given by him to 
Lady Glencora. She pressed one hand 
against her heart, gasped for breath, 
and then fell back upon the sofa. Per- 
haps she could have done nothing bet- 
ter. Had the fainting been counterfeit, 
the measure would have shown ability. 
But the fainting was altogether true. 
Mrs. Carbuncle first, and then Mr. Bunfit, 
hurried from their seats to help her. 
To neither of them did it occur for a 
moment that the fit was false. 

“The whole thing has been too much 
for her,” said Mrs. Carbuncle severely, 
ringing the bell at the same time for 
further aid. 

“ No doubt — mum ; no doubt. We 
has to see a deal of this sort of thing. 
Just a little air, if you please, mum — 
and as much water as ’d go to christen 
a babby. That’s always best, mum.” 

“ If you’ll have the kindness to stand 
on one side,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, as 
she stretched Lizzie on the sofa. 

“ Certainly, mum,” said Bunfit, stand- 
ing erect by the wall, but not showing 
the slightest disposition to leave the 
room. 

“You had better go,” said Mrs. Car- 
buncle— loudly and very severely. 

“I’ll just stay and see her come to, 
mum. I won’t do her a morsel of harm, 
mum. Sometimes they faints at the very 
first sight of such as we ; but we has 


to bear it. A little more air, if you 
could, mum- -and just dash the water 
on in drops like. They feels a drop 
more than they would a bucket-full — and 
then when they comes to they hasn’t 
to change theirselves.” 

Bunfit’s advice, founded on much ex- 
perience, was good, and Lizzie gradual- 
ly came to herself and opened her eyes. 
She immediately clutched at her breast, 
feeling for her key. She found it un- 
moved, but before her finger had recog- 
nised the touch, her quick mind had 
told her how wrong the movement had 
been. It had been lost upon Mrs. Car- 
buncle, but not on Mr. Bunfit. lie did 
not at once think that she had the dia- 
monds in her desk ; but he felt almost 
sure that there was something in her 
possession — probably some document — 
which, if found, would place him on the 
track of the diamonds. But he could not 
compel a search. “Your lad3'’ship ’ll 
soon be better,” said Bunfit graciously. 
Lizzie endeavored to smile as she express- 
ed her assent to this proposition. “ As I 
was a saying to the elder lady ” 

“ Saying to who, sir? ” exclaimed Mi-s. 
Carbuncle, rising up in wrath. “ Elder 
indeed ! ” 

“ As I was a venturing to explain, these 
fits of fainting come often in our way. 
Thieves, mum — that is, the regulars — 
don’t mind us a bit, and the women Ls 
more hardeneder than the men; but 
when we has to speak to a lady, it is so 
often that she goes off like that ! I’ve 
known ’m do it just at being looked at.” 

“ Don’t you think, sir, that you’d bet- 
ter leave us now? ” said Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ Indeed you had,” said Lizzie. “ I’m 
fit for nothing just at present.” 

“We won’t disturb your lad3'ship the 
least in life,” said Mr. Bunfit, “ if you’ll 
only just let us have your keys. Your 
servant can be with us, and we won’t 
mo\e one tittle of anything. But Lizzie, 
though she was still suffering that inef- 
fable sickness which alwaj^s accompanies 
and follows a real fainting-fit, would not 
surrender her keys. Already had an ex- 
cuse for not doing so occurred to her. But 
for a while she seemed to hesitate. “ I 
don’t demand it, Lady Eustace,” said 
Mr. Bunfit, “ but if you’ll allow me to 
say so, I do think it will look better for 
your ladj-’ship.” 

“I can take no step without consulting 


216 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


my cousin, Mr. Greystock,” said Lizzie; 
and having thought of this she adhered to 
it. The detective supplied her w'ith many 
reasons for giving up her keys, alleging 
that it would do no harm, and that her 
refusal would create infinite suspicions. 
But Lizzie had formed her answer and 
stuck to it. She always consulted her 
cousin, and always acted upon his advice, 
lie had already cautioned her not to take 
any steps without his sanction. She 
would do nothing till he consented. If 
l\Ir. Bunfit would see Mr. Greystock, and 
if Mr. Greystock would come to her and 
tell her to submit — ^she would submit. Ill 
as she was, she could be obstinate, and 
Bunfit left the house without having been 
able to finger that key which he felt sure 
that Lady Eustace carried somewhere on 
her person. 

As he walked back to his own quarters 
in Scotland Yard, Bunfit was by no means 
dissatisfied with his morning’s work. lie 
had not expected to find anything with 
Lady Eustace, and, when she fainted, had 
not hoped to be allowed to search. But 
he was now sure that her ladyship was 
possessed, at any rate, of some guilty 
kno‘wledge. Bunfit was one of those who, 
almost from the first, hadl>elieved that the 
box was empty when taken out of the hotel. 
“ Stones like them must turn up more or 
less,” was Bunfit’s great argument. That 
the police should already have found the 
stones themselves was not perhaps proba- 
ble ; but had any ordinary thieves had them 
in their hands, they could not have been 
passed on without leaving a trace behind 
them. It was his opinion that the box 
had been opened and the door cut by the 
instrumentality and concurrence -of Lord 
George de Bruce Carruthers, with the 
assistance of some one well-skilled me- 
chanical thief. Nothing could be made 
out of the tall footman. Indeed, the tall 
footman had already been set at liberty, 
although he was known to have evil asso- 
ciates ; and the tall footman was now loud 
in demanding compensation for the injury 
done to him. Many believed that the tall 
footman had been concerned in the matter, 
many, that is, among the experienced crafts- 
men of the police force. Bunfit thought 
otherwise. Bunfit believed that the dia- 
monds were own either in the possassion 
of Lord George or of Harter and Benjamin, 
that they had been handed over to Lord 
George to save them from Messrs. Camper- 


down and the lawsuit, and that Lord George 
and the lady were lovers. The lady’s con- 
duct at their last interview, her fit of faint- 
ing, and her clutching for the key, all con- 
firmed Bunfit in his opinion. But unfortu- 
nately for Bunfit he was almost alone in 
his opinion. There were men in the force, 
high in their profession as detectives, who 
avowed that certainly two very experienced 
and well-known thieves had been con- 
cerned in the business. That a certain 
Mr. Smiler had been there, a gentleman 
for whom the whole police of London 
entertained a feeling which approached to 
veneration, and that most diminutive of 
full-grown thieves, Billy Cann, most di- 
minutive but at the same time most ex- 
pert, was not doubted by some minds 
which were apt to doubt till conviction 
had become certainty. The traveller who 
had left the Scotch train at Dumfries had 
been a very small man, and it was a known 
fact that ^Ir. Smiler bad left London by 
train from the Euston Square station, on 
the day before that on which Lizzie and 
her party had reached Carlisle. If it were 
so, if Mr. Smiler and Billy Cann had lx)th 
]>een at work at the hotel, then — so argued 
they who opposed the Bunfit theory — it was 
hardl}^ conceivable that the robbeiy should 
have been arranged by Lord George. Ac- 
cording to the Bunfit theory the only thing 
needed by the conspirators had been that 
the diamonds should be handed over by 
Lady Eustace to Lord George in such a 
way as to escape suspicion that such trans- 
fer had been made This might have been 
done with very little trouble, by simply 
leaving the box empty, with the key in it. 
The door of the bedroom had been opened 
by skilful professional men, and the lx)x had 
been forced by the use of tools which none 
but professional gentlemen would possess. 
Was it probable that Lord George would 
have committed himself with such men, 
and incurred the very heavy expense of 
paying for their services, when he was, 
according to the Bunfit theory, able to get 
at the diamonds without any such trouble, 
danger, and expenditure? There was a 
young detective in the force, very clever — 
almost too clever, and certainly a little too 
fast — Gager by name, who declared that 
the Bunfit theory “ warn’t on the cards.” 
According to Gager's information, Smiler 
was at this moment a broken-hearted man, 
ranging betw’een mad indignation and 
suicidal despondency, because he had 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


217 


been treated with treachery in some direc- 
tion. Mr. Gager was as fully convinced 
as Buufit that the diamonds had not been 
in the box. There was bitter, raging, 
heart-breaking disappointment about the 
diamonds in more quarters than one. 
That there had been a double robbery 
Gager was quite sure ; or rather a robbery 
in which two sets of thieves had been con- 
cerned, and in which one set had been 
duped by the other set. In this affair 
Mr. Smiler and poor little Billy Cann had 
been the dupes. So far Gager’s mind had 
arrived at certainty. But then how had 
they been duped, and who had duped 
them? And who had employed them? 
Such a robbery would hardly have been 
arranged and executed except on commis- 
sion. Even Mr. Smiler would not have 
burdened himself with such diamonds 
without knowing what to do with them, 
and what he should get for them. That 
they were intended ultimately for the 
hands of Messrs. Harter and Benjamin, 
Gager almost believed. And Gager was 
inclined to think that Messrs. Harter and 
Benjamin — or rather Mr. Benjamin, for 
Mr. Harter himself was almost too old for 
work requiring so very great mental activ- 
ity — that Mr. Benjamin, fearing the hon- 
♦’sty of his executive officer Mr. Smiler, 
had been splendidly treacherous to his 
subordinate. Gager had not quite com- 
pleted his theory ; but he was very firm 
on one great point, that the thieves at 
Carlisle had been genuine thieves, think- 
ing that they were stealing the diamonds, 
and finding their mistake out when the 
box had been opened by them under the 
bridge. “ Who have ’em, then? ” asked 
Bunfit of his younger brother, in a dis- 
paraging whisper. 

“ Well ; yes ; who ’ave ’em? It’s easy 
to say, who ’ave ’em? Suppose ’e ’ave 
’em.” The “ he ” alluded to by Gager 
was Lord George de Bruce Carruthers. 

“ But laws, Bunfit, they’re gone — weeks 
ago. You know that, Bunfit.” This 
had occurred before the intended search 
among poor Lizzie’s boxes, but Bunfit’s 
theory had not been shaken. Burifit could 
see all round his own theory. It was a 
whole, and the motives as well as the op- 
erations of the persons concerned were 
explained by it. But the Gager theory 
only went to show what had not been 
done, and offered no explanation of the 
accomplished scheme. Then Bunfit went 


a little further in his theory, not disdain- 
ing to accept something from Gager. 
Perhaps Lord George had engaged these 
men, and had afterwards found it practi- 
cable to get the diamonds without their 
assistance. On one great point all con- 
cerned in the inquiry were in unison — 
that the diamonds had not been in the 
box when it was carried out of the bed- 
room at Carlisle. The great point of dif- 
ference consisted in this, that whereas 
Gager was sure that the robbery when 
committed had been genuine,*Bunfit was 
of opinion that the box had been first 
opened, and then taken out of the hotel in 
order that the police might be put qn a 
wrong track. 

The matter was becoming very impor- 
tant. Two or three of the leading news- 
papers had first hinted at and then openly 
condemned the incompetence and slowness 
of the police. Such censure, as we all 
know, is very common, and in nine cases 
out of ten it is unjust. They who write 
it probably know but little of the circum- 
stances ; and, in speaking of a failure 
here and a failure there, make no refer- 
ence to the numerous successes, .wh\ch 
are so customary as to partake of the na- 
ture of routine. It is the same in regard 
to all public matters ; army matters, navy 
matters, poor-law matters, and post-office 
matters. Day after day, and almost 
every day, one meets censure which is 
felt to be unjust; but the general result 
of all this injustice is increased efficiency. 
The coach does go the faster because of 
the whip in the coachman’s hand, though 
the horses driven may never have deserved 
the thong. In this matter of the Eustace 
diamonds the police had been very active ; 
but they had been unsuccessful and had 
consequently been abused. The robbery 
was now more than three weeks old. 
Property to the amount of ten thousand 
pounds had been abstracted, and as yet 
the police had not even formed an assured 
opinion on the subject ! Had the same 
thingt)ccurred in New York or Paris every 
diamond would by this time have been 
traced. Such were the assertions made, 
and the police were instigated to new ex- 
ertions. Bunfit would have jeopardized 
his right hand, and Gager his life, to get 
at the secret. Even Major Mackintosh 
was anxious. 

The facts of the claim made by Mr. 
Camperdown, and of the bill which had 


218 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


been filed in Chancery for the recovery of 
the diamonds, were of course widely 
known, and added much to the general 
interest and complexity. It was averred 
that Mr. Camperdown's determination to 
get the diamonds had been very energetic, 
and Lady Eustace’s determination to keep 
them equally so. Wonderful stories were 
told of Lizzie’s courage, energy and reso- 
lution. There was hardly a lawyer of 
repute but took up the question, and had 
an opinion as to Lizzie’s right to the neck- 
lace. The Attorney and Solicitor-Gene- 
ral were dead against her, asserting that 
the diamonds certainly did not pass to her 
under the will, and could not have be- 
come hers by gift. But they were mem- 
bers of a liberal government, and of course 
Antilizzieite. Gentlemen who were equal 
to them in learning, who had held offices 
equally high, were distinctly of a different 
opinion. Lady Eustace might probably 
claim the jewels as paraphernalia proper- 
ly appertaining to her rank ; in which 
claim the bestowal of them by her hus- 
band would no doubt assist her. And to 
these gentlemen — who were Lizzieites and 
of couiise Conservatives in politics — it was 
by no means clear that the diamonds did 
not pass to her by will. If it could be 
shown that the diamonds had been lately 
kept in Scotland, the ex- Attorney-Gene- 
ral thought that they would so pass. All 
which questions, now that the jewels had 
been lost, were discussed openlj’’, and 
added greatly to the anxiety of the police. 
Both Lizzieites and Antilizzieites were 
disposed to think that Lizzie was very 
clever. 

Frank Greystock in these daj’s took up 
his cousin’s part altogether in good faith. 
He entertained not the slightest suspicion 
that she was deceiving him in regard to 
the diamonds. That the robbery had been 
a bona fide robbery, and that Lizzie had 
lost her treasure, was to him beyond 
doubt. lie had gradually convinced him- 
self that Mr. Camperdown was wrong in 
his claim, and was strongly of opinion 
that Lord Fawn had disgraced himself by 
his conduct to the lady. When he now 
heard, as he did hear, that some undefin- 
ed suspicion was attached to his cousin, 
and when he heard also — as unfortunately 
he did hear — that Lord Fawn had encour- 
aged that suspicion, he was very irate, 
and said grievous things of Lord Fawn. 
It seemed to him to be the extremity of 


cruelty that suspicion should be attached 
to his cousin because she had been robbed 
of her jewels. He was among those who 
were most severe in their denunciation of 
the police — and was the more so, because 
he had heard it asserted that the necklace 
had not in truth been stolen. He busied 
himself very much in the matter, and even 
interrogated John Eustace as to his inten- 
tions. ‘‘ My dear fellow,” said Eustace, 
“ if you hated those diamonds as much as I 
do, you would never mention them again.” 
Greystock declared that this expression of 
aversion to the subject might be all very 
well for Mr. Eustace, but that he found 
himself bound to defend his cousin. 
“ You cannot defend her against me,” 
said Eustace, “ for Ido not attack her. 1 
have never said a word against her. I 
went down to Portray when she asked 
me. As far as I am concerned she is per- 
fectly welcome to wear the necklace, if 
she can get it back again. I will not 
make or meddle in the matter one way or 
the other.” Frank, after that, went to 
Mr. Camperdown, but he could get no 
satisfaction from the attorney. Mr. Cam- 
perdown would only say that he had a 
dut}' to do, and that he must do it. On the 
matter of the robbery he refused to give 
an opinion. That was in the hands of the 
police. Should the diamonds be recover- 
ed, he would, of course, claim them on 
behalf of the estate. In his opinion, 
whether the diamonds were recovered or 
not. Lady Eustace was responsible to the 
estate for their value. In opposition, first 
to the entreaties, and then to the demands 
of her late husband’s family, she had in- 
sisted on absurdly carrying about with 
her an enormous amount of property 
which did not belong to her. Mr. Cam- 
perdown opined that she must pay for 
the lost diamonds out of her jointure. 
Frank, in a huff, declared that, as far as 
he could see, the diamonds belonged to 
his cousin ; in answer to which Mr. Cam- 
perdown suggested that the question was 
one for the decision of the Vice-Chancel- 
lor. Frank Greystock found that he 
could do nothing with Mr. Camperdown, 
and felt that he could wreak his vengeance 
only on Lord Fawn. 

Bunfit, when he returned from Mrs. 
Carbuncle’s house to Scotland Yard, had 
an interview with Major Mackintosh. 
“Well, Bunfit, have you seen the 
lady'*” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


219 


“ Yes, I did see her, sir.” 

“ And what came of it? ” 

“ She fainted away, sir— just as they 
always do.” 

“ There was no search, I suppose ? ” 

“No, sir; no search. She wouldn’t 
have it, unless her cousin, Mr. Greystock, 
permitted.” 

“ I didn’t think she would.” 

“ Nor yet didn’t I, sir. But I’ll tell 
you what it is, major. She knows all 
about it.” 

“ You think she does, Bunfit? ” 

“ She does, sir ; and she’s got some- 
thing locked up somewhere in that house 
as ’d elucidate the whole of this aggravat- 


ing mystery, if only we could get at it, 
Major ” 

“ \Yell, Bunfit.” 

“ 1 ain’t noways sure as she ain’t got 
them very diamonds themselves locked up , 
or, perhaps, tied round her person.” 

“ Neither am I sure that she has not.” 
said the major. 

“ The robbery at Carlisle was no rol> 
bery,” continued Bunfit. “ It was a got- 
up plant, and about the best as 1 ever 
knowed. It’s my mind that it was a got- 
up plant between her ladyship and his 
lordship ; and either the one or the other 
is just keeping the diamonds till it’s safe 
to take ’em into the market.” 


CHAPTER L. 

IN HERTFORD STREET. 

During all this time Lucinda Roanoke 
was engaged to marry Sir Griffin Tewett, 
and the lover was an occasional visitor in 
Hertford street. Mrs. Carbuncle was as 
anxious as ever that the marriage should 
be celebrated on the appointed day, and 
though there had been repeated quarrels, 
nothing had as yet taken place to make 
her despond. Sir Griffin would make 
some offensive speech. Lucinda would 
tell him that she had no desire ever to see 
him again, and then the baronet, usually 
under the instigation of Lord George, 
would make some awkward apology. 
Mrs. Carbuncle, whose life at this period 
was not a pleasant one, would behave on 
such occasions with great patience, and 
sometimes with* great courage. Lizzie, 
who in her present emergency could not 
bear the idea of losing the assistance of 
any friend, was soft and graceful, and 
even gracious, to the bear. The bear him- 
self certainly seemed to desire the mar- 
riage, though he would so often give offence 
which made any prospect of a marriage 
almost impossible. But with Sir Griffin, 
when the prize seemed to be lost, it again 
became valuable. He would talk about 
his passionate love to Mrs. Carbuncle 
and to Lizzie, and then, when things had 
been made straight for him, he would in- 
sult them, and neglect Lucinda. To Lu- 
cinda herself, however, he would rarely 
dare to say such words as he used daily to 
the other ‘two ladies in the house. What 
could have been the man’s own idea of his 
future married life, how can any reader 
be made to understand, or any writer 
adequately describe? He must have 
known that the woman despised him, and 
hated him. In the very bottom of his 
heart he feared her. He had no idea of 
other pleasures from her society than what 
might arise to him from the pride of hav- 
ing married a beautiful woman. Had 
she shown the slightest fondness for him, 
the slightest fear that she might lose him, 
the slightest feeling that she had won a 


valuable prize in getting him, he would 
have scorned her, and jilted her without 
the slightest remorse. But the scorn 
came from her, and it beat him down. 
“ Yes, you hate me, and would fain be 
rid of me ; but you have said that you 
will be my wife, and you cannot now 
escape me.” Sir Griffin did not exactly 
speak such words as these, but he acted 
them. Lucinda would bear his presence, 
sitting apart from him, silent, imperious, 
but very beautiful. People said that she 
became more handsome from day to day, 
and she did so, in spite of her agony. 
Hers was a face which could stand such 
condition of the heart without fading or 
sinking under it. She did not weep, or 
lose her color, or become thin. The 
pretty softness of a girl, delicate feminine 
weakness, or laughing eyes and pouting 
lips, no one expected from her. Sir Grif- 
fin, in the early days of their acquaint- 
ance, had found her to be a woman with 
a character for beauty, and she was now 
more beautiful than ever. He probably 
thought that he loved her ; but, at any 
rate, he was determined that he would 
marry her. 

He had expressed hinaself more than 
once as very angry about this affair of the 
jewels. He had told Mrs. Carbuncle that 
her inmate, Lady Eustace, was suspected 
by the police, and that it might be well 
that Lady Eustace should be — be made 
to go, in fact. But it did not suit Mi*s. 
Carbuncle that Lady Eustace should be 
made to go ; nor did it suit Lord George 
de Bruce Carruthers. Lord George, at 
Mrs. Carbuncle’s instance, had snubbed 
Sir Griffin more than once, and then it 
came to pass that he was snubbed yet 
again more violently than before. He 
was at the house' in Hertford street on the 
day of Mr. Bunfit's visit, some hours after 
Mr. Bunfit was gone, when Lizzie was 
still lying on her bed up stairs, nearly 
beaten by the great danger which had op- 
pressed her. He was told of Mr. B unfit’s 
visit, and then again said that he thought 
that the continued residence of Lady Eus- 
tace beneath that roof was a misfortune. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


221 


“ Would you wish us to turn her out be- 
cause her necklace has been stolen ? ” 
asked Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ People say very queer things,” said 
Sir GriflSn. 

“ So they do, Sir Griffin,” continued 
Mrs. Carbuncle. “They say such queer 
things that I can hardly understand that 
they should be allowed to say them. 1 
am told that the police absolutely suggest 
that Lord George stole the diamonds.” 

“ That’s nonsense.” 

“ No doubt, Sir Griffin. And so is the 
other nonsense. Do you mean to tell us 
that you believe that Lady Eustace stole 
her own diamonds? ” 

“ I don’t see the use of having her here. 
Situated as I am, I have a right to ob- 
ject to it.” 

“Situated as you are, Sir Griffin!” 
said Lucinda. 

“ Well, yes, of course ; if we are to be 
married, I cannot but think a good deal 
of the persons you stay with.” 

“ You were very glad to stay yourself 
with Lady Eustace at Portray,” said Lu- 
cinda. 

“ I went there to follow you,” said Sir 
Griffin gallantly. 

“ I wish with all my heart you had 
staid away,” said Lucinda. At that 
moment Lord George was shown into the 
room, and Miss Koanoke continued speak- 
ing, determined that Lord George should 
know how the bear was conducting him- 
self. “ Sir Griffin Ls saying that my aunt 
ought to turn Lady Eustace out of the 
house.” 

“ Not quite that,” said Sir Griffin with 
an attempt at laughter. 

“ Quite that,” said Lucinda. “ I don’t 
suppose that he suspects poor Lady Eus- 
tace, but he thinks that my aunt’s friend 
should be like Caesar’s wdfe, above the 
suspicion of others.” 

“ If you would mind 3’^our own busi- 
ness, Tewett,’’ said Lord George, “it 
would be a deal better for us all. I won- 
der Mrs. Carbuncle doas not tura you out 
of the room for making such a propo- 
sition here. If it were my room, I 
would.” 

“ I suppose I can say what I please to 
Mrs. Carbuncle? Miss Roanoke is not 
going to be your wife.” 

“ It is my belief that Miss Roanoke will 
be nobody’s wife, at any rate, for the 
present ” said that j'oung lady ; upon 


which Sir Griffin left the room, muttering 
some words, which might have been, per- 
haps, intended for an adieu. Immediately 
after this Lizzie came in, moving slowly, 
but without a sound, like a ghost, with 
pale cheeks and dishevelled hair, and that 
wearj^, worn look of illness which was be- 
come customary with her. She greeted 
Lord George with a faint attempt at a 
smile, and seated herself in a corner of a 
sofa. She asked whether he had been told 
the story of the proposed search, and then 
bade her friend Mrs. Carbuncle describe 
the scene. 

“ilf it goes on like this it will kill me,” 
said Lizzie. 

“ They are treating me in precisel}’’ the 
same way,” said Lord George. 

“ But think of j’our strength and of my 
weakness, Lord George.” 

“ By heavens, I don’t know,” said Lord 
George. “ In this matter your weakness 
is stronger than any strength of mine. I 
never was so cut up in my life. It was a 
good joke when we talked of the suspi- 
cions of that fellow at Carlisle as we came 
up by the railway, but it is no joke now. 
I’ve had men with me, almost asking to 
search among my things.” 

“They have quite asked me,” said 
Lizzie piteously. 

“You; yes. But there’s some reason 
in that. These infernal diamonds did be- 
long to you, or, at any rate, you had them. 
You are the last person know'n to have 
seen them. Even if you had them still, 
you’d only have what you call your own.” 
Lizzie looked at him with all her ej^es and 
listened to him with all her ears. “But 
what the mischief can I have had to do 
with them? ” 

“ It’s very hard upon you,” said Mrs. 
Carbuncle. 

“ Unless I stole them,” continued Lord 
George. 

“ Which is so absurd, you know,” said 
Lizzie. 

“ That a pig-headed provincial fool 
should have taken me for a midnight thief, 
did not disturb me much. I don’t think 
I am very easily annoyed by what other 
people think of me. But these fellows, I 
suppose, were sent here by the head of 
the metropolitan police; and everybody 
knows that they have been sent. Because 
I was civil enough to you women to look 
after you coining up to town, and because 
one of you was careless enough to lose her 


222 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


jewels, I — 1 am to be talked about all 
over London as the man who took them ! ” 
This was not spoken with much courtesy 
to the ladies present. Lord George had 
dropped that customary chivalry of man- 
ner which, in ordinary life, makes it to 
be quite out of the question that a man 
shall be uncivil to a woman. He had es- 
caped from conventional usage into rough, 
truthful speech, under stress from the ex- 
tremity of the hardship to which he had 
been subjected. And the women under- 
stood it and appreciated it, and liked it 
rather than otherwise. To Lizzie it seemed 
fitting that a Corsair so circumstanced 
should be as uncivil as he pleased ; and 
Mrs. Carbuncle had long been accustomed 
to her friend’s moods. 

“ They can’t really think it,” said Mrs. 
Carbuncle. 

“ Somebody thinks it. 1 am told that 
your particular friend. Lord Fawn,” — this 
he said, specially addressing Lizzie, — “ has 
expressed a strong opinion that I carry 
about the necklace always in my pocket. 

I trust to have the opportunity of wring- 
ing his neck some day.” 

“ I do so wish you would,” said Lizzie. 

“ I shall not lose a chance if I can get 
it. Before all this occurred, I should have 
said of myself that nothing of the kind 
could put me out. I don’t think there is 
a man in the world cares less what people 
say of him than I do. I am as indilSferent 
to ordinary tittle-tattle as a rhinoceros. 
But, by George, when it comes to stealing 
ten thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds, 
and the delicate attentions of all the me- 
tropolitan 'police, one begins to feel that 
one is vulnerable. When I get up in the 
morning, I half feel that I shall be locked 
up before night, and I can see in the eyes 
of every man I meet that he takes me for 
the prince of burglars ! ” 

“ And it is all my fault,” said Lizzie. 

“ I wish the diamonds had been thrown 
into the sea,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ What do you think about them your- 
self? ’’asked Lucinda. 

“ I don’t know what to think. I’m at 
a dead loss. You know that man, Mr. 
Benjamin, Lady Eustace ? ’’ Lizzie, with 
a little start, answered that she did, that 
she had had dealings with him before her 
marriage, and had once owed him two or 
three hundred pounds. As the man’s 
name had been mentioned, she thought it 
better to own as much. “ So he tells me. ‘ 


Now, in all London, I don’t suppose there 
is a greater rascal than Benjamin.” 

“ I didn’t know that,” said Lizzie. 

“ But I did ; and with that rascal 1 
have had money dealings for the last six 
or seven years. He has cashed bills for me, 
and has my name to bills now — and Sir 
Grifl5n’s too. I’m half inclined to think 
that he has got the diamonds.” 

“ Do you indeed? ” said Mrs. Carbuncle 

“ Mr. Benjamin ! ” said Lizzie. 

“ And he returns the compliment.” 

“ How does he return it ? ” asked Mrs 
Carbuncle. 

“ He either thinks that I’ve got ’em 
or he wants to make me believe that he 
thinks so. He hasn’t dared to say it — 
but that’s his intention. Such an opin- 
ion from such a man on such a subject 
would be quite a compliment. And I feel 
it. But yet it troubles me. You know 
that greasy, Israelitish smile of his. Lady 
Eustace.” Lizzie nodded her head and 
tried to smile. “ When I asked him yes- 
terday about the diamonds, he leered at 
me and rubbed his hands. ‘ It’s a pretty 
little game — ain’t it. Lord George?’ h© 
said. I told him that I thought it a very 
bad game, and that I hoped the police 
would have the thief and the necklace 
soon. ‘ Ifs been managed a deal too well 
for that, Lord George — don’t you think 
so?”’ Lord George mimicked the Jew 
as he repeated the words, and the ladies, 
of course, laughed. But poor Lizzie's 
attempt at laughter was very sorry. “ 1 
told him to his face that I thought he had 
them among his treasures. ‘ No, no, no. 
Lord George,’ he said, and seemed quite 
to enjoy the joke. If he’s got- them him- 
self, he can’t think that I have them ; 
but if he has not, I don’t doubt but he 
believes that I have. And I’ll tell you 
another person who suspects me.” 

“ What fools they are ! ” said Lizzie. 

“ I don’t know how that may be. Sir 
Griffin, Lucinda, isn’t at all sure but 
what I have them in my pocket.” 

“ I can believe anything of him,” said 
Lucinda. 

“ And it seems he can believe anything 
of me. I shall begin to think soon that I 
did take them, myself — or, at any rate, 
that I ought to have done so. I wonder 
what you three women think of it. If you 
do think I’ve got ’em, don’t scruple to 
say so. I’m quite used to it, and it won’t 
‘ hurt me any further.” The ladies again 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


223 


/ 

laughed. “ You must have j"our suspi- 
cions,” continued he. 

“ I suppose some of the London thieves 
did get them,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ The police say the box was empty,” 
said Lord George. 

“How can the police know?” asked 
Lucinda. “ They weren’t there to see. 
Of course the thieves would say that they 
didn’t take them.” 

“ What do you think. Lady Eustace? ” 

“ I don’t know what to think. Per- 
haps Mr. Caraperdown did it.” 

“ Or the Lord Chancellor,” said Lord 
George. “One is just as likely as the 
other. I wish I could get at what you 
really think. The whole thing would be 
so complete if all you three suspected me. 
I can’t get out of it all by going to Paris 
or Kamtchatka, as I should have half a 
dozen detectives on my heels wherever I 
went. I must brazen it out here ; and 
the worst of it is, that I feel that a look 
of guilt is creeping over me. I have a sort 
of conviction growing upon me that I shall 
be taken up and tried, and that a jury 
will find me guilty. I dream about it; 
and if— as is probable — it drives me mad, 
I’m sure that I shall accuse myself in my 
madness. There’s a fascination about it 
that I can’t explain or escape. I go on 
thinking how I would have done it if I 
did do it. I spend hours in calculating 
how much I would have realized, and 
where I would have found my market. 
I couldn’t keep myself from asking Ben- 
iamin the other day how much they would 
be worth to him.” 

“ What did he say?’’ asked Lizzie, who 
Silt gazing upon the Corsair, and who was 
now herself fascinated. Lord George was 
walking about the room, then sitting for 
a moment in one chair and again in anoth- 
er, and after a while leaning on the man- 
tel-piece. In his speaking he addressed 
himself almost exclusively to Lizzie, who 
could not keep her eyes from his. 

“ He grinned greasily,” said the Cor- 
sair, “ and told me they had already been 
offered to him once before by you.” 

“ That’s fal.se ! ” said Lizzie. 

“ Very likely. And then he said that 
no doubt they’d fall into his hands some 
day. ‘ Wouldn’t it be a game. Lord 
George,’ he said, ‘ if, after all, they should 
be no more than paste ? ’ That made me 
think he had got them, and that he’d get 
paste diamonds pat into the same setting 


— and then give them up with some story 
of his own making. ‘ You’d know wheth- 
er they were paste or not, wouldn’t you 
Lord George?’ he asked.” The Corsair, 
as he repeated Mr. Benjamin’s words, 
imitated the Jew’s manner so well that 
he made Lizzie shudder. “ While I was 
there, a detective named Gager came in.” 

“ The same man who came here, per- 
haps,’’^ suggested Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ I think not. He seemed to be quite 
intimate with Mr. Benjamin, and went on 
at once about the diamonds. Benjamin 
said that they’d made their way over to 
Paris, and that he’d heard of them. 1 
found mj'self getting quite intimate with 
Mr, Gager, who seemed hardly to scruple 
at showing that he thought that Benjamin 
and I were confederates. Mr. Camper 
down has offered four hundred pounds re 
ward for the jewels, to be paid on their 
surrender to the hands of Mr. Garnett, 
the jeweller. Gager declared that, if any 
ordinary thief had them, they would be 
given up at once for that sum.” 

“ That’s true, I suppose,” said Mrs. 
Carbuncle. 

“ IIow would the ordinary thief get his 
money without being detected? Who 
would dare to walk into Garnett s shop 
with the diamonds in his hands and ask 
for the four hundred pounds? Besides, 
they have been sold to some one, and, as 
I believe, to my dear friend, Mr. Benja- 
min. ‘ I suppose you ain’t a-going any- 
where just at present. Lord George?’ 
said that fellow Gager. ‘ What the dev- 
il’s that to you?’ I asked him. He just 
laughed and shook his head. I don’t 
doubt but that there’s a policeman about 
waiting till I leave this house ; or looking 
at me now with a magnifying glass from 
the windows at the other side. They’ve 
photographed me while I’m going about, 
and published a list of every hair on 1113' 
face in the ‘ Hue and Cry.’ I dined at 
the club yesterday, and found a strange 
waiter. I feel certain that he was a po- 
liceman done up in livery all for my sake, 
I turned sharp round in the street yaster- 
day, and found a man at a corner. I am 
sure that man was watching ine, and was 
looking at my pockets to see whether the 
jewel case was there. As for myself, I 
can think of nothing else. I wish I had 
got them. I should have something then 
to pay me for all this nuisance.” 

“ I do wish you had,” said Lizzie 


224 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ What I should do with them I cannot 
even imagine. I am always thinking of 
that, too, making plans for getting rid 
of them, supposing I had stolen them. 
My belief is, that I should be so sick of 
them that I should chuck them over the 
bridge into the river, only that I should 
fear that some policeman’s eye would be 
on me as I did it. My present position is 
not comfortable, but if I had got them 
I think that the weight of them would 
crush me altogether. Having a handle to 
my name, and being a lord, or, at least, 
called a lord, makes it all the worse. 
People are so pleased to think that a lord 
should have stolen a necklace ! ” 

Lizzie listened to it all with a strange 
fascination. If this strong man were so 
much upset by the bare suspicion, what 
must be her condition ? The jewels were 
in her desk up stairs, and the police had 
been with her also, were even now proba- 
bly looking after her and watching her. 
How much more difficult must it be for 
her to deal with the diamonds than it 
would have been for this man. Presently 
Mrs. Carbuncle left the room, and Lucinda 
followed her. Lizzie saw them go , and did 
not dare to go with them. She felt as 
though her limbs would not have carried 
her to the door. She was now alone with 
her Corsair ; and she looked up timidly 
into his deep-set eyes, as he came and 
stood over her. “ Tell me all that you 
know about it,” he said, in that deep, low 
voice which, from her first acquaintance 
with him, had filled her with interest, and 
almost with awe. 


CHAPTER LI. 

CONFIDENCE. 

Lizzie Eustace was speechless as she 
continued to look up into the Corsair’s 
face. She ought to have answered him 
briskly, either with indignation or with a 
touch of humor. But she could not an- 
swer him at all. She was desired to tell 
him all that she knew about the robbery, 
and she was unable to declare that she 
knew nothing. How much did he sus- 
pect? What did he believe? Had she 
been watched by Mrs. Carbuncle, and had 
something of the truth been told to him ? 
And then would it not be better for her 
that he should know it all? Unsupport- 
ed and alone she could not bear the trouble 


which was on her. If she were driven tc 
tell her secret to any one, had she not bet- 
ter tell it to him ? She knew that if she 
did so, she would be a creature in his 
hands to be dealt with as he pleased ; but 
would there not be a certain charm in 
being so mastered ? He was but a pinch- 
beck lord. She had wit enough to know 
that ; but then she had wit enough also to 
feel that she herself was but a pinchbeck 
lady. He would be fit for her, and she 
for him, if only he would take her. Since 
her day-dreams first began, she had been 
longing for a Corsair ; and here he was, 
not kneeling at her feet, but standing over 
her, as became a Corsair. At any rate he 
had mastered her now, and she could not 
speak to him. 

He waited perhaps a minute, looking at 
her, before he renewed his question ; and 
the minute seemed to her to be an age. 
During every second her power beneath 
his gaze sank lower and lower. There 
gradually came a grim smile over his face, 
and she was sure that he could read her 
very heart. Then he called her by her 
Christian name, as he had never called her 
before. ‘‘ Come, Lizzie,” he said, “you 
might as well tell me all about it. You 
know.” 

“ Know what ? ” The words were au- 
dible to him, though they were uttered in 
the lowest whisper. 

“ About this d necklace. "What is 

it all ? Where are they ? And how did 
you manage it ? ” 

“ I didn’t manage anything ! ” 

“ But you know where they are ? ” He 
paused again, still gazing at her. Grad- 
ually there came across his face, or she 
fancied that it was so, a look of ferocity 
which thoroughly frightened her. If he 
should turn against her, and be leagued 
with the police against her, what chance 
would she have? “You know where 
they are,” he said, repeating his words. 
Then at last she nodded her head, assenting 
to his assertion. “ And where are they? 
Come, out with it! If you won’t tell 
me, you must tell some one else. There 
has been a deal too much of this al- 
ready.” 

“ You won’t betray me ?’ 

“ Not if you deal openly with me.” 

“ I will ; indeed I will. And it was ah 
an accident. When I took them out oi 
the box, I oVily did it for safety.” 

“ You did take them out of the ]x>x 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


225 


then?” Again she nodded her head. 
“ And have got them now ? ” There was 
another nod. “And where are they? 
Come ; -with such an enterprising spirit as 
5 'ours, you ought to be able to speak. Has 
Benjamin got them ? ” 

“ Oh no.” 

“ And he knows nothing about them?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Then I have wronged in my thoughts 
that son of Abraham.” 

“•Nobody knows anything,” said Lizzie. 

“ Not even Jane or Lucinda ? ” 

“ Nothing at all.” 

“ Then you have kept your secret mar- 
vellously. And where are they ? ” 

“ Up stairs.” 

“ In your bedroom ? ” 

“ In my desk in the little sitting-room.” 

“ The Lord be good to us ! ” ejacu- 
lated Lord George. “ All the police in 
London, from the chief downwards, are 
agog about this necklace. Every well- 
known thief in the town is envied by 
every other thief because he is thought to 
have had a finger in the pie. I am sus- 
pected, and ]!ilr. Benjamin is suspected ; 
Sir GriflSn is suspected, and half the jew- 
ellers in London and Paris are supposed 
to have the stones in their keeping. 
Every man and woman is talking about it, 
and people are quarrelling about -it till 
they almost cut each other’s throats ; and 
all the while you have got them locked up 
in your desk ! IIow on earth did you get 
the box broken open and then conveyed 
out of your room at Carlisle? ” 

Then Lizzie, in a frightened whisper, 
with her eyes often turned on the floor, 
told the whole story. “ If I’d had a 
minute to think of it,” she said, “ I 
would have confessed the truth at Carlisle. 
V7hy should I want to steal what was my 
own ? But they came to me all so quick- 
ly, and I didn’t like to say that I had them 
under my pillow.” 

“ I dare say not.” 

“ And then I couldn’t tell anybody 
afterwards. I always meant to tell you, 
from the very first, because I knew you 
would be good to me. They are my own. 
Surely I might do what I liked with my 
OAvn?” 

“ Well, yes ; in one way. But you 
see there was a lawsuit in Chancery going 
on about them ; and then you committed 
perjury at Carlisle. And altogether, it’s 
not quite straight sailing, you know.” 

15 


“ I suppose not.” 

“ Hardly. Major Mackintosh, and the 
magistrates, and Messrs. B unfit and Gager 
won’t settle down, peaceable and satisfied, 
when they hear the end of the story. And 
I think Messrs. Camperdown will have a 
bill against you. It’s been uncommonly 
clever, but I don’t see the use of it.” 

“I’ve been very foolish,” said Lizzie ; 
“ but you won’t desert me? ” 

“ Upon my word I don’t know what I’m 
to do.” 

“Will you have them as a present ? ” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ They’re worth ever so much ; ten 
thousand pounds ! And they are my own , 
to do just what I please with them.” 

“^You are very good ; but what should 
I do with them ? ” 

“ Sell them.” 

“ Who’d buy them? And before a 
week was over I should be in prison, and 
in a couple of months should be standing 
at the Old Bailey at my trial. I couldn’t 
just do that, my dear.” 

“ What will you do for me? You are 
my friend — ain’t you?” The diamond 
necklace was not a desirable possession in 
the eyes of Lord George de Bruce Car- 
ruthers ; but Portray Castle, with its in- 
come, and the fact that Lizzie Eustace Avas 
still a very young woman, was desirable. 
Her prettiness too Avas not altogether 
throAvn away on Lord George, though, as 
he was wont to say to himself, he Avas too 
old now to sacrifice much for such a toy as 
that. Something he must do, if only be- 
cause of the knowledge which had come 
to him. He could not go away and leave 
her, and neither say nor do anything in 
the matter. And he could not betray her 
to the police. “ You will not desert me,” 
she said, taking hold of liLshand, and kiss- 
ing it as a suppliant. 

He pas-sed his arm round her waist, but 
more as though she Avere ’a child than a 
woman, as he stood thinking. Of all the 
affairs in Avhich he had ever been engaged, 
it Avas the most difficult. She submitted 
to his embrace, and leaned upon his shoul- 
der, and looked up into his face. If he 
would only tell her that he loved her, then 
he would be bound to her, then must he 
share with her the burthen of the dia- 
monds, then must he be true to her- 
“ George,” she said, and burst into a 1oa> 
suppressed wailing, with her face hidden 
upon his arm. 


226 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ That’s all very well,” said he, still 
holding her, for she was pleasant to hold, 

“ but what the d is a fellow to do ? 1 

don’t see my way out of it. I think you’d 
better go to’ Oamperdown, and give them 
up to him, and tell him the truth.” Then 
she sobbed more violently than before, till 
lier quick ear caught the sound of a foot- 
step on the stairs, and in a moment she 
was out of his arms and seated on the sofa, 
with hardly a trace of tears in her eyes. It 
was the footman, who desired to know 
whether Lady Eustace would want the 
carriage that afternoon. Lady Eustace, 
with her cheeriest voice, sent her love to 
^Irs. Carbuncle, and her assurance that 
she would not want the carriage before 
the evening. “ 1 don’t know that youjcan 
do anything else,” continued Lord George, 
“ except just give them up and brazen it 
out. I don’t suppose they’d prosecute 
you.” 

“ Prosecute me ! ” ejaculated Lizzie. 

“ For perjury, I mean.” 

“ And what could they do to me ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. Lock you up for 
five years, perhaps.” 

“ Because I had my own necklace un- 
der the pillow in my own room ? ” 

‘ ‘ Think of all the trouble you ’ve given . ’ ’ 

“ I’ll never give them up to Mr. Carn- 
perdown. They are mine ; my very own. 
My cousin, Mr. Greystock, who is much 
more of a lawyer than Mr. Oamperdown, 
says so. Oh, George, do think of some- 
thing. Don’t tell me that I must give 
them up. Wouldn’t Mr. Benjamin buy 
them? ” 

“ Yes, for half nothing; and then go 
and tell the whole story and get money 
from the other side. You can’t trust Ben- 
jamin.” 

“ But I can trust you.” She clung to 
him and implored him, and did get from 
him a renewed promise that he would not 
reveal her secret. She wanted him to take 
the terrible packet from her there and 
then, and use his own judgment in dispos- 
ing of it. But this he positively refused 
to do. He protested that they were safer 
with her than they could be with him. He 
explained to her that if they were found 
in his hands, his offence in having them 
in his possession would be much greater 
than hers. They were her own, as she 
was ever so ready to assert ; or if not her 
own, the ownership was so doubtful that 
she could not be accused of having stolen 


them. And then he needed to consider it 
all, to sleep upon it, before he could make 
up his mind what he would do. 

But there was one other trouble’ on her 
mind as to which he was called upon to 
give her counsel before he was allowed to 
leave her. She had told the detective of- 
ficer that she would submit her boxes and 
desks to be searched if her cousin Frank 
should advise it. If the policeman were 
to return with her cousin while the dia- 
monds were still in her desk, what should 
she do? He might come at any time; and 
then she would be bound to obey him. 

“ And he thinks that they were stolen at 
Carlisle?” asked Lord George. “Of 
course he thinks so,” said Lizzie, almost 
indignantly. “ They would never ask to 
search your person,” suggested Lord 
George. Lizzie could not say. She had 
simply declared that she would be guided 
by her cousin. “Have them about you 
when he comes. Don’t take them out 
with you ; but keep them in your pocket 
while you are in the house during the day. 
They will hardly bring a woman with them 
to search you.” 

“ But there was a woman with the man , 
when he came before.” 

“ Then you must refuse in spite of your 
cousin. Show yourself angry with him 
and with everybody. Swear that you did 
not intend to submit yourself to such in- 
dignity as that. They can’t do it without 
a magistrate’s order, unless you permit 
it. I don’t suppose they will come at all ; 
and if they do they will only look at your 
clothes and your boxes. If they ask to do 
more, be stout with them and refuse. Of 
course they’ll suspect you, but they do 
that already. And your cousin will sus- 
pect you ; but you must put up with that. 
It will be very bad ; but I see nothing bet- 
ter. But, of all things, say nothing of 
me.” 

“ Oh no,” said Lizzie, promising to be 
obedient to him. And then he took his 
leave of her. “ You will be true to me, 
will you not ? ” she said, still clinging to 
his arm. He promised her that he would. 
“Oh, George,” she said, “I have no 
friend now but you. You will care for 
me? ” He took her in his arms and kiss- 
ed her, and promised her that he would 
care for her. How was he to save himself 
from doing so? When he was gone, Lizzie 
sat down to think of it all, and felt sure 
that at last she liad found her Corsair. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


227 


CHAPTER LH. 

MRS. CARBUNCLE GOES TO THE THEATRE. 

Mrs. Carbuncle and Lizzie Eustace did 
not, in these days, shut themselves up be- 
cause there was trouble in the household. 
It would not have suited the creed of Mrs. 
Carbuncle on social matters to be shut up 
from the amusements of life. She had 
sacrificed too much in seeking them for 
that, and was too conscious of the price 
she paid for them. It was still midwin- 
ter, but nevertheless there was generally 
some amusement arranged for every even- 
ing. Mrs. Carbuncle was very fond of the 
play, and made herself acquainted with 
every new piece as it came out. Every 
actor and actress of note on the stage was 
known to her, and she dealt freely in criti- 
cisms on their respective merits. The 
■three ladies had a box at the Hay market 
taken for this very evening, at which a 
new piece, “ The Noble Jilt,” from the 
hand of a very eminent author, was to be 
produced. Mrs. Carbuncle had talked a 
great deal about “ The Noble Jilt,” and 
could boast that she had discussed the mer- 
its of the two chief characters with the 
actor and actress who were to undertake 
them. Miss Talbot had assured her that 
the Margaret was altogether impractica- 
ble, and Mrs. Carbuncle was quite of the 
same opinion. And as for the hero, Stein- 
mark, it was a part that no man could 
play so as to obtain the sympathy of an 
audience. There was a second hero, a 
Flemish Count, tame as rain-water, Mrs. 
Carbuncle said. She was very anxious for 
the success of the piece, which, as she 
said, had its merits ; but she was sure 
that it wouldn’t do. She had talked about 
it a great deal, and now, when the evening 
came, she was not going to be deterred 
from seeing it by any trouble in reference 
to a diamond necklace. Lizzie, when she 
was left by Lord George, had many doubts 
on the subject, whether she would go or 
stay at home. If he would have come to 
her, or her cousin Frank, or if, had it been 
possible. Lord Fawn would have come, she 
would have given up the play very will- 
ingly. But to be alone, with her necklace 
in the desk up stairs, or in her pocket, was 
terrible to her. And then, they could not 
search her or her boxes while she was at the 
theatre. She must not take the necklace 
with her there. He had told her to leave 
it in her desk when she went from home. 


Lucinda, also, was quite determined 
that she would see the new piece. She de- 
clared to her aunt, in Lizzie’s presence, 
without a vestige of a smile, that it might 
be well to see how a jilt could behave her- 
self, so as to do her work of jilting in any 
noble fashion. “ My dear,” said her aunt, 
“jmu let things weigh upon your heart a 
great deal too much.” “ Not upon my 
heart. Aunt June,” the young lady had 
answered. She also intended to go, and 
when she had made up her mind to any- 
thing, nothing would deter her. She had 
no desire to stay at home in order that she 
might see Sir Griffin. “ I dare say the 
play may be very bad,” she said, “ but it 
can hardly be so bad as real life.” 

Lizzie, when Lord George had left her, 
crept up stairs, and sat for a while think- 
ing of her condition, with the key of her * 
desk in her hand. Should there come a 
knock at the door, the case of diamonds 
would be in her pocket in a moment. 
Her own room door was bolted on the in- 
side, so that she might have an instant for 
her preparation. She was quite resolved 
that she would carry out Lord George’s 
recommendation, and that no policeman 
or woman should examine her person, un- 
less it were done by violence. There she 
sat, almost expecting that at every mo- 
ment her cousin would be there with Bun- 
fit and the woman. But nobody came, 
and at six she went down to dinner. 
After much consideration she then left 
the diamonds in the desk. Surely no one 
would come to search at such an hour as 
that. No one had come when the carriage 
was announced, and the three ladies went 
off together. 

During the whole way Mrs. Carbuncle 
talked of the terrible situation in which 
poor Lord George was placed by the ro)> 
bery, and of all that Lizzie owed him on 
account of his trouble. “ My dear,” 
said Mrs. Carbuncle, “ the least you can 
do for him is to give him all that you’ve 
got to give.” “I don’t know that he 
wants me to give him anything,” said 
Lizzie. “1 think that’s quite plain,” 
said JMrs. Carbuncle, “ and I’m sure I 
wish it may be so. He and I have been 
dear friends — very dear friends, and there 
is nothing I wish so much as to see him 
properly settled. Ill-natured people like 
to say all manner of things because every- 
body does not choose to live in their own 
heartless, conventional form. But I can 


228 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


assure you there is nothing between me 
and Lord George which need prevent him 
from giving his whole heart to you.” 
“ I don’t suppose there is,” said Lizzie, 
who loved an opportunity of giving Mrs. 
Carbuncle a little rap. 

The play, as a play, was a failure ; at 
least so said Mrs. Carbuncle. The critics, 
on the next morning, were somewhat di- 
vided — not only in judgment, but as to 
facts. To say how a play has been receiv- 
ed is of more moment than to speak of its 
own merits or of the merits of the actors. 
Three or four of the papers declared that 
the audience was not only eulogistic, but 
enthusiastic. One or two others averred 
that the piece fell very flatly. As it was 
not acted above four or five dozen times 
consecutively, it must be regarded as a 
failure. On their way home Mrs. Carbun- 
cle declared that Minnie Talbot had done 
her very best with such a part as Marga- 
ret, but that the character afforded no 
scope for sympathy. “A noble jilt, my 
dears,” said Mrs. Carbuncle eloquently, 

* ‘ is a contradiction in terms. There can be 
no such thing. A woman, when she has 
once said the word, is bound to stick to it. 
T’he delicacy of the female character 
should not admit of hesitation between 
two men. The idea is quite revolting.” 

“ But may not one have an idea of no 
man at all?” asked Lucinda. “Must 
that be revolting also? ” 

“ Of course a young woman may en- 
tertain such an idea ; though for my part I 
look upon it as unnatural. But when she 
has once given herself there can be no tak- 
ing back without the loss of that aroma 
which should be the apple of a young 
woman’s eye.” 

“ If she finds that she has made a mis- 
take — ?” said Lucinda fiercely. “Why 
shouldn’t a young woman make a mistake 
as well as an old woman? Her aroma 
won’t prevent her from having been wrong 
and finding it out.” 

“ My dear, such mistakes, as you call 
them, always arise from fantastic notions. 
Look at this piece. Why does the lady 
jilt her lover ? Not because she doesn’t 
like him. She’s just as fond of him as 
ever.” 

“He’s a stupid sort of a fellow, and I 
think she was quite right,” said Lizzie. 
“ I’d never marry a man merely because I 
said I would. If I found I didn’t like 
him, I’d leave him at the altar. I’d 


leave him any time I found I didn’t like 
him. It’s all very well to talk of aroma, 
but to live with a man you don’t like— 
is the devil.” 

“ My dear, those whom God has joined 
together shouldn’t be separated — for any 
mere likings or dislikings.” This Mrs. 
Carbuncle said in a high tone of moral 
feeling, just as the carriage stopped at the 
door in Hertford street. They at once 
perceived that the hall-door was open, and 
Mrs. Carbuncle, as she crossed the pave- 
ment, saw that there were two policemen 
in the hall. The footman had been with 
them to the theatre, but the cook and 
housemaid, and Mrs. Carbuncle’s own 
maid, were with the policemen in the pas- 
sage. She gave a little scream, and then 
Lizzie, who had followed her, seized her 
by the arm. She turned round and saw 
by the gas-light that Lizzie’s face was- 
white as a sheet, and that all the lines of 
her countenance were rigid and almost 
distorted. “ Then she does know all 
about it,” said Mrs. Carbuncle to herself. 
Lizzie didn’t speak, but still hung on to 
Mrs. Carbuncle’s arm, and Lucinda, hav- 
ing seen how it was, was also supporting 
her. A policeman stepped forward and 
touched his hat. He was not Bunfit — 
neither was he Gager. Indeed, though 
the ladies had not perceived the difference, 
he was not at all like Bunfit or Gager. 
This man was dressed in a policeman’s 
uniform, whereas Bunfit and Gager al- 
ways wore plain clothes. “My lady,” 
said the policeman, addressing Mrs. Car- 
buncle, “ there’s been a robbery here.” 

“A robbery!” ejaculated Mrs. Car- 
buncle. 

“Yes, my lady. The servants all out, 
all to one ; and she’s off. They’ve taken 
jewels, and, no doubt, money, if there was 
any. They don’t mostly come unless 
they know what they comes for.” 

With a horrid spasm across her heart, 
which seemed ready to kill her, so sharp 
was the pain, Lizzie recovered the use of 
her legs and followed Mrs. Carbuncle 
into the dining-room. She had been 
hardly conscious of hearing ; but she had 
heard, and it had seemed to her that the 
robbery spoken of was something distinct 
from her own affair. The policeman did 
not speak of having found the diamonds. 
It was of something lost that they spoke. 
She seated herself in a chair against the 
wall, but did not utter a word. “ We’ve 


THE EUSTACE DIAMOOTS. 


229 


been up stairs, my lady, and they’ve been 
in most of the rooms. There’s a desk broke 
open.” Lizzie gave an involuntary little 
scream. “ Yes, mum, a desk,” continued 
the policeman turning to Lizzie, “ and a 
bureau, and a dressing-case. What’s 
gone your ladyship can tell when you sees. 
And one of the young women is off. It’s 
she as done it.” Then the cook explain- 
ed. She and the housemaid, and Mrs. 
Carbuncle's lady’s maid, had just stepped 
out, only round the corner, to get a little 
air, leaving Patience Crat>stick in charge 
of the house ; and when they came back, 
the area gate was locked against them, 
the front door was locked, and finding 
themselves unable to get in after many 
knockings, they had at last obtained the 
assistance of a policeman. He had got 
into the place over the area gate, had 
opened the front door from within, and 
then the robbery had been discovered. It 
was afterwards found that the servants had 
all gone out to what they called a tea-par- 
ty, at a public-house in the neighborhood, 
and that by previous agreement Patience 
Crabstick had remained in charge. When 
they came back Patience ’ Crabstick was 
gone, and the desk, and bureau, and dress- 
ing-case were found to have been opened. 
“ She had a reg’lar thief along with her, 
my lady,” said the policeman, still ad- 
dressing himself to Mrs. Carbuncle, 

’cause of the way the thing's was open- 
ed.” 

“ I always knew that young woman was 
downright bad,” said Mrs. Carbuncle in 
her first expression of wrath . 

But Lizzie sat in her chair without say- 
ing a word, still pale with that almost aw- 
ful look of agony in her face. Within ten 
minutes of their entering the house, Mrs. 
Carbuncle was making her way up stairs, 
with the two policemen following her. 
That her bureau and her dressing-case 
should have been opened was dreadful to 
her, though the value that she could thus 
lose was veiy small. She also possessed 
diamonds, but her diamonds were paste ; 
and whatever jewelry she had of any 
value, a few rings, and a brooch, and such 
like, had been on her person in the thea- 
tre. What little money she had by her 
was in the drawing-room, and the draw- 
ing-room, as it seemed, had not been en- 
tered. In truth, all Mrs. Carbuncle’s 
possessions in the house were not sufficient 
to have tempted a well-bred, well-instruct- 


ed thief. But it behooved her to be indig- 
nant; and she could be indignant with 
grace, as the thief was discovered to be, 
not her maid, but Patience Crabstick. The 
policemen followed Mrs. Carbuncle, and 
the maids followed the policemen ; but 
Lizzie Eustace kept her seat in the chair 
by the wall. “ Do j^ou think they have 
taken much of yours ?” said Lucinda, com- 
ing up to her and speaking very gently. 
Lizzie made a motion with her two hands 
upon her heart, and struggled, and gasp- 
ed, as though she wished to speak but 
could not. “I suppose it is that girl who 
has done it all,” said Lucinda. Lizzie 
nodded her head, and tried to smile. The 
attempt was so ghastly that Lucinda, 
though not timid by nature, was frighten- 
ed. She sat down and took Lizzie’s hand, 
and tried to comfort her. “ It is very hard 
upon you,” she said, “to be twice rob- 
bed.” Lizzie again nodded her head. “I 
hope it is not much now. Shall we go up 
and see?” The poor creature did get 
upon her legs, but she gasped so terribly 
that Lucinda feared that she was dying. 
“ Shall I send for some one?” she said. 
Lizzie made an effort to speak, was sha- 
ken convulsively while the other support- 
ed her, and then burst into a flood of tears. 

When that had come she was relieved, 
and could again act her part. “Yes,’’ 
she said, “ we will go with them. It is so 
dreadful ; is it not?” 

“ Very dreadful ; but how much better 
that we weren’t at home. Shall we go 
now?” Then together they followed 
the others, and on the stairs Lizzie explain- 
ed that in her desk, of which she always 
carried the key round her neck, there was 
what money she had by her — two ten- 
pound notes, and four five-pound notes, 
and three sovereigns; in all, forty-three' 
pounds. Her other jewels, the jewels 
which she had posses.sed over and above the 
fatal diamond necklace, were in her dress- 
ing-case. Patience, she did not doubt, 
had known that the money was there, and 
certainly knew of her jewels. So they 
went up stairs. The desk was open and 
the money gone. Five or six rings and a 
bracelet had been taken also from Lizzie’s 
dressing-case, which she had left open. 
Of Mrs. Carbuncle’s property sufficient 
had been stolen to make a long list in that 
lady’s handwriting. Lucinda Roanoke’s 
room had not been entered, as far as they 
' could judge. The girl had taken the best 


230 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


of her own clothes, and a pair of strong 
boots belonging to the cook. A superin- 
tendent of police was there before they 
went to bed, and a list was made out. 
The superintendent was of opinion that 
the thing had been done very cleverly, but 
also thought that the thieves had ex- 
pected to find more plunder. “ They don’t 
care so much about bank notes, my lady, 
because they fetches such a low price with 
them as they deal with. The three sover- 
eigns is more to them than all the forty 
pounds in notes.” The superintendent 
had heard of the diamond necklace, and 
expressed an opinion that poor Lady Eus- 
tace was especially marked out for misfor- 
tune. “ Tt all comes of having such a 
girl as that about her,” said Mrs. Car- 
buncle. The superintendent, who intend- 
ed to be consolatory to Lizzie, expressed 
his opinion that it was very hard to know 
what a young woman was. “ They looks 
as soft as butter, and they’re as sly as 
foxes, and as quick, as quick — as quick as 
greased lightning, my lady.” Such a 
piece of business as this which has just oc- 
curred will make people intimate at a 
very short notice. 

And so the diamond necklace, known to 
be worth ten thousand pounds, had at 
lust been stolen in earnest ? Lizzie, when 
the policemen were gone, and the noise 
was over, and the house was closed, slunk 
away to her bedroom, refusing any aid in 
lieu of that of the wicked Patience. She 
herself had examined the desk beneath 
the eyes of her two friends and of the po- 
licemen, and had seen at once that the 
case was gone. The money was gone too, 
as she was rejoiced to find. She perceived 
at once that had the money been left, the 
very leaving of it would have gone to prove 
that other prize had been there. But the 
money was gone — money of which she 
had given a correct account — and she 
could now honestly allege that she had 
been robbed But she had at last really 
lost her great treasure ; and if the treas- 
ure should be found then would she infal- 
libly be exposed. She had talked twice 
of giving away her necklace, and had se- 
riously thought of getting rid of it by 
burying it deep in the sea. But now that 
it was in very truth gone from her, the 
loss of it was horrible to her. Ten thou- 
sand pounds, for which she had struggled 
so much and borne so many things, which 
had come to be the prevailing fact of her 


life, gone from her forever ! Nevertheless 
it was not that sorrow, that regret which 
had so nearly overpowered her in the din- 
ing-parlor. At that moment she hardly 
knew, had hardly thought, whether the 
diamonds had or had not been taken. But 
the feeling came upon her at once that 
her own disgrace was every hour being 
brought nearer to her. Her secret was no 
longer quite her bwn. One man knew it, 
and he had talked to her of perjury and 
of five years’ imprisonment. Patience 
must have known it, too ; and now some 
one else also knew it. The police, of 
course, would find it out, and then horrid 
words would be used against her. She 
hardly knev/ what peij ury was. It sound- 
ed like forgery and burglary. To stand 
up before a judge and be tried, and then 
to be locked up for five years in prison ! 
What an end would this be to all her glo- 
rious success ! And what evil had she 
done to merit all this terrible punish- 
ment? When they came to her in her 
bedroom at Carlisle she had simply been 
too much frightened to tell them all that 
the necklace was at that moment under 
her pillow. 

She tried to think of it all, and to form 
some idea in her mind of what might be 
the truth. Of course Patience Crabstick 
had known her secret, but how long had 
the girl known it ? And how had the girl 
discovered it? She was almost sure, 
from certain circumstances, from words 
which the girl had spoken, and from signs 
which she had observed, that Patience had 
not even suspected that the necklace had 
been brought with them from Carlisle to 
London. Of course the coming of Bunfit 
and the woman would have set the girl’s 
mind to work in that direction ; but then 
Bunfit and the woman had only been there 
on that morning. The Corsair knew the 
facts, and no one but the Corsair. That 
the Corsair was a Corsair the suspicions 
of the police had proved to her. She had 
olfered the necklace to the Corsair; but 
when so offered he had refused to take it. 
She could understand that he should see 
the danger of accepting tlie diamonds from 
her hand, and yet should be desirous of 
having them. -And might not he have 
thought that he could best relieve her 
from the burden of their custody in this 
manner? She lelt no anger against the 
Corsair as she weighed the probability of 
his l-.aving taken them in this fiishion. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


231 


A Corsair must be a Corsair. AV'ere he 
to come to her and confess the deed, she 
would almost like him the better for it, 
admiring his skill and enterprise. But 
how very clever he must have been, and 
how brave ! He had known, no doubt, 
that the three ladies were all going to the 
theatre ; but in how short a time had he 
got rid of the other women and availed 
himself of the services of Patience Crab- 
stick ! 

But in what way would she conduct 
herself when the police should come to 
her on the following morning, the police 
and all the other people who would crowd 
to the house ? How should she receive her 
cousin Frank? How should she look 
when the coincidence of the double rob- 
bery should be spoken of in her hearing ? 
How should she bear herself when, as of 
course would be the case, she should again 
be taken before the magistrates, and made 
to swear as to the loss of her property ? 
Must she commit more perjury, with the 
certainty that various people must know 
that her oath was false ? All the world 
would suspect her. All the world would 
soon know the truth. Might it not be 
possible that the diamonds were at this 
moment in the hands of Messrs. Camper- 
down, and that they would be produced 
before her eyes, as soon as her second false 
oath had been registered against her? 
And yet how could she tell the truth? 
And what would the Corsair think of her, 
the Corsair who would know everything? 
She made one resolution during the night. 
She would not be taken into court. The 
magistrates and the people might come to 
her, but she would not go before them. 
AVhen the morning came she said that she 
was ill, and refused to leave her bed. Po- 
licemen, she knew, were in the house ear- 
ly. At about nine Mrs. Carbuncle and 
Lucinda were up and in her room. The 
excitement of the affair had taken them 
from their beds, but she would not stir. 
If it were absolutely necessary, she said, 
the men must come into her room. She 
had been so overset by what had occurred 
on the previous night, that she could not 
leave her room. She appealed to Lucinda 
as to the fact of her illness. The trouble 
of these robberies was so great upon her 
that her heart was almost broken . If her 
deposition must be taken, she would make 
it in bed. In the course of the day the 
magistrate did come into her room and the 


deposition was taken. Forty-three pounds 
had been taken from her desk, and certain 
jewels, which she described, from her 
dressing-case. As far as she was aware, 
no other property of hers was missing. 
This she said in answer to a direct ques- 
tion from the magistrate, which, as she 
thought, was asked with a stern voice and 
searching eye. And so, a second time, .she 
had sworn falsely. But this at least w^as 
gained, that Lord George de Bruce Car- 
ruthers was not looking at her as she 
swore. 

Lord George w'as in the house for a 
great part of the day, but he did not ask 
to be admitted to Lizzie’s room ; nor did 
she ask to see him. Frank Greystock was 
there late in the afternoon, and went up 
at once to see his cousin. The moment that 
she saw him she stretched out her arms to 
him, and. burst into tears. “My poor 
girl,’^ said he, “ what is the meaning of 
it all ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I think they will kill 
me. They want to kill me. How can I 
bear it all ? The robbers were here last 
night, and magistrates and policemen and 
people have been here all day.” Then 
she fell into a fit of sobbing and wailing, 
which was, in truth, hysterical. For, if 
the readers think of it, the poor woman 
had a great deal to bear. 

Frank, into whose mind no glimmer of 
suspicion against his cousin had yet en- 
tered, and who firmly believed that she 
had been made a victim because of the 
value of her diamonds, and who had a 
theory of his own about the robbery at 
Carlisle, to the circumstances of which he 
was now at some pains to make these lat- 
ter circumstances adhere, was very tender 
with his cousin, and remained in the 
house for more than an hour. “Oh, 
Frank, what had I better do ? ” she asked 
him, 

“ I would leave London, if I were you.” 

“Yes; of course. I will. Oh yes, I will.” 

“ If you don’t fear the cold of Scot- 
land ” 

“ I fear nothing, nothing but being 
where these policemen can come to me. 
Oh ! ” and then she shuddered and w’as 
again hysterical. Nor was she acting the 
condition. As she remembered the mag- 
istrates, and the detectives, and the po- 
licemen in their uniforms, and reflected 
that she might probably see much more of 
them before the game was played out, 


233 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


the thoughis that crowded on her were 
almost more than she could bear. 

“ Your child is there, and it is your own 
house. Go there till all this passes by.” 
Whereupon she promised him that, as 
soon as she w^as well enough, she would 
at once go to Scotland. 

In the mean time, the Eustace diamonds 
w'ere locked up in a small safe fixed into 
the W'all at the back of a small cellar be- 
neath the establishment of Messrs. Harter 
and Benjamin, in Minto Lane, in the City. 
Messrs. Harter and Benjamin always kept 
second place of business. Their great 
shop was at the West End ; but they had 
accommodation in the City. 

The chronicler states this at once, as he 
scorns to keep from his reader any secret 
that is known to himself. 


CHAPTER LHI. 
lizzie’s sick-room. 

When the Hertford street robbery was 
three days old, and was still the talk of 
all the town, Lizzie Eustace was really ill. 
She had promised to go down to Scotland 
in compliance with the advice given to her 
by her cousin Frank, and at the moment 
of promising would have been willing 
enough to be transported at once to Por- 
tray, had that been possible — so as to be 
beyond the visits of policemen and the 
authority of lawyers and magistrates ; 
but as the hours j)assed over her head, 
and as her presend^of mind returned to 
her, she remembered that even at Portray 
she would not be out of danger, and that 
she could do nothing in furtherance of her 
plans if once immured there. Lord 
George was in London, Frank Greystock 
w'as in London, and Lord Fawn was in 
London. It was more than ever necessa- 
ry to her that she should find a husband 
among them, a husband who would not 
be less her husband when the truth of 
that business at Carlisle should be known 
to all the world. She had, in fact, stolen 
nothing. She endeavored to comfort her- 
self by repeating to herself over and 
over again that assurance. She had 
stolen nothing ; and she still thought that 
if she could obtain the support of some 
strong arm on which to lean, she might 
escape punishment for those false oaths 
which she had sworn . Her husband might 
take her abroad, and the whole thing 


would die away. If she should succeed 
with Lord George, of course he would 
take her abroad, and there would be no 
need for any speedy return. They might 
roam among islands in pleasant warm 
suns, and the dreams of her youth might 
be realized. Her income was still her 
own. They could not touch that. So she 
thought, at least, oppressed by some slight 
want of assurance in that respect. Were 
she to go at once to Scotland, she must for 
the present give up that game altogether. 
If Frank would pledge himself to become 
her husband in three or four, or even in 
six months, she would go at once. She 
had more confidence in Frank than even 
in Lord George. As for love, she would 
sometimes tell herself that she was violent- 
ly in love ; but she hardly knew with 
which. Lord George was certainly the 
best representative of that periect Corsair 
which her dreams had represented to her ; 
but, in regard to working life, she thought 
that she liked her cousin Frank better than 
she had ever yet liked any other human be- 
ing. But, in truth , she was now in that con- 
dition, as she acknowledged to herself, that 
she was hardly entitled to choose. Lord 
Fawn had promised to marry her, and to 
him as a husband she conceived that she 
still had a right. Nothing had as yet 
been proved against her which could jus- 
tify him in repudiating his engagement. 
She had, no doubt, asserted with all vehe- 
mence to her cousin that no consideration 
would now induce her to give her hand to 
Lord Fawn ; and when making that assu- 
rance she had been, after her nature, sin- 
cere. But circumstances were changed 
since that. She had not much hope that 
Lord Fawn might be made to succumb, 
though evidence had reached her before 
the last robbery which induced her to be- 
lieve that he did not consider himself to 
be quite secure. In these circumstances 
she was unwilling to leave London though 
she had promised, and was hardly sorry to 
find an excuse in her recognized illness. 

And she was ill. Though her mind was 
again at work with schemes on which she 
would not have busied herself without 
hope, yet she had not recovered i'rom the 
actual bodily prostration to which she 
had been compelled to give way when first 
told of the robbery on her return from the 
theatre. There had been moments then 
in which she thought that her heart would 
have broken ; moments in which, but that 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


233 


the power of- speech was wanting, she 
would have told everything to Lucinda 
Roanoke. When ^Mrs. Carbuncle was 
marching up stairs with the policemen, at 
her heels she would willingly have sold all 
her hopes, Portray Castle, her lovers, her 
necklace, her income, her beauty, for any 
assurance of the humblest security. With 
that quickness of intellect which was her 
peculiar gift, she had soon understood, in 
the midst of her sufferings, that her neck- 
lace had been taken by thieves whose rob- 
bery might assist her for a while in keep- 
ing her secret, rather than lead to the 
, immediate divulging of it. Neither 
Camperdown nor Bunfit had been at 
work among* the boxes. Her secret had 
been discovered, no doubt, by Patience 
Crabstick, and the diamonds were gone. 
But money. also was taken, and the world 
need not know that the diamonds had been 
there. But Lord George knew. And then 
there arose to her that question : Had the 
diamonds been taken in consequence of 
that revelation to Lord George ? It was 
not surprising that in the midst of all this 
Lizzie should be really ill. 

She was most anxious to see Lord 
George ; but, if what Mrs. Carbuncle said 
to her was true. Lord George refused to 
see her. She did not believe Mrs. Car- 
buncle, and was, therefore, quite in the 
dark about her Corsair. As she could 
only communicate with him through Mrs. 
Carbuncle, it might well be the case that 
he should have been told that he could 
not have access' to her. Qf course there 
were difficulties. That her cousin Frank 
should see her in her bedroom — her cousin 
Frank, with whom it was essentially ne- 
cessary that she should hold counsel as to 
her present great difficulties — was a matter 
of course. There was no hesitation about 
that. A fresh nightcap, and a clean 
pocket handkerchief with a bit of lace 
round it, and perhaps some pretty cover- 
ing to her shoulders if she were to be re- 
quired*to sit up in bed, and the thing was 
arranged. He might have spent the best 
part of his days in her bedroom if he could 
have spared the time. But the Corsair 
was not a cousin, nor as yet an acknowl- 
edged lover. There was difficulty even in 
framing a reason for her request, when 
she made it to Mrs. Carbuncle ; and the 
. very reason which she gave was handed 
back to her as the Corsair’s reason for not 
coming to her. She desired to see him 


because he had been so mixed up in the 
matter of these terrible robberies. But 
Mrs. Carbuncle declared to her that Lord 
George would not come to her because his 
name had been so frequently mentioned in 
connection with the diamonds. “ You 
see, my dear,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, 
“ there can be no real reason for his see- 
ing you up in your bedroom. If there 
had been anything between you, as I once 

thought there would There was 

something in the tone of Mrs. Carbuncle’s 
voice which grated on Lizzie’s ear, some- 
thing which seemed to imply that all that 
prospect was over. 

“ Of course,” said Lizzie querulous^, 
“I am very anxious to know what he 
thinks. I care more about his opinion 
than anybody else’s. As to his name be 
ing mixed up in it, that is all a joke.” 

“ It has been no joke to him, I can as- 
sure you,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. Lizzie 
could not press her request. Of course 
she knew more about it than did Mrs. 
Carbuncle. The secret was in her own 
bosom, the secret as to the midnight rob- 
bery at Carlisle, and that secret she had 
told to Lord George. As to the robbery 
in London she knew nothing, except that 
it had been perpetrated througli the 
treachery of Patience Crabstick. Did 
Lord George know more about it than she 
knew? and if so, was he now deterred by 
that knowledge from visiting her ? “You 
see, my dear,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, “ that 
a gentleman visiting a lady with whom he 
has no connection, in her bedroom,* is in 
itself something very peculiar.” Lizzie 
made a motion of impatience under the 
bedclothes. Any such argmnent was trash 
to her, and she knew that it was trash to 
]\Irs. Carbuncle also. What was one man 
in her bedroom more than another ? She 
could see a dozen doctors if she pleased, 
and if so, why not this man, whose real 
powers of doctoring her would be so much 
more efficacious? “You would want to 
see him alone, too,” continued Mrs. Car- 
buncle, “ and, of course, the police would 
hear of it. I am not at all surprised that 
he should stay away.” Lizzie’s condi- 
tion did not admit of much argument on 
her side, and she only showed her opposi- 
tion to Mrs. Carbuncle by being cross and 
querulous. 

Frank Greystock came to her with great 
constancy almost every day, and from him 
she did hear about the robbery all that he 


234 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


knew or heard. When three days had 
passed, when six days, and even when ten 
days were gone, nobody had been as yet 
arrested. The police, according to Frank, 
were much on the alert, but were very se- 
cret. They either would not or could not 
tell anything. To him the two robberies, 
that at Carlisle and the last affair in Hert- 
ford street, were of course distinct. There 
were those who believed that the Hertford 
street thieves and the Carlisle thieves 
were not only the same, but that they had 
been in quest of the same plunder, and 
had at last succeeded. But Frank was 
not one of these. He never for a moment 
doubted that the diamonds had been taken 
at Carlisle, and explained the second rob- 
bery by the supposition that Patience 
Crabstick had been emboldened by suc- 
cess. The iron box had no doubt been 
taken by her assistance, and her familiari- 
ty with the thieves, then established, had 
led to the second robbery. Lizzie’s loss 
in that second robbery had amounted to 
some hundred pounds. This was Frank 
Greystock’s theory, and of course it was 
one very comfortable to Lizzie. 

“ They all seem to think that the dia- 
monds are at Paris,” he said to her one 
day. 

“ If you only knew how little I care 
about them ! It seems as though I had 
almost forgotten them in these after trou- 
bles.” 

“ ;Mr. Camperdown cares about them. 
I’m told he says that he can make you 
pay for them out of your jointure.” 

“ That would be very terrible, of course,” 
said Lizzie, to whose mind there was 
something consolatory in the idea that 
the whole affair of the robbery might per- 
haps remain so mysterious as to remove 
her from the danger of other punishment 
than this. 

“ I feel sure that he couldn’t do it,” 
said Frank, “ and I don’t think he’ll try 
it. John Eustace would not let him. It 
would be persecution.” 

“Mr. Camperdown has always chosen 
to persecute me,” said Lizzie. 

“ I can understand that he shouldn’t 
like the loss of the diamonds. I don’t 
think, Lizzie, you ever realized their true 
value.” 

“ I suppose not. After all, a necklace 
is only a necklace. I cared nothing for it 
— except that I could not bear the idea 
that that man should dictate to me. I ' 


would have given it up at once, at the 
slightest word from you.” He did not 
care to remind her then, as she lay in bed, 
that he had been very urgent in his advice 
to her to abandon the diamonds ; and not 
the less urgent because he had thought 
that the demand for them was unjust. 
“ I told you often,” she continued, “ that 
I was tempted to throw them among the 
waves. It was true, quite true. I offer- 
ed to give them to you, and should have 
been delighted to have been relieved from 
them.” 

‘ ‘ That was of course simply impossible. ’ 

“ I know it was impossible on your 
part ; but I would have been delighted.* 
Of what use were they to me ? I wore them 
twice because that man ” — meaning Lord 
Fawn — “ disputed my right to them. Be- 
fore that I never even looked at them. Do 
you think I had pleasure in wearing them, 
or pleasur'e in looking at them ? Never. 
They were only a trouble to me. It was a 
point of honor with me to keep them, be- 
cause I was attacked. But I am glad they 
are gone — thoroughly glad.” This was all 
very well, and was not without its effect 
on Frank Greystock. It is hardly expect- 
ed of a woman in such a condition, with 
so many troubles on her mind, who had 
been so persecuted, that every word utter- 
ed by her should be strictly true. Lizzie, 
with her fresh nightcap and her lace 
handkerchief, pale, and with her eyes just 
glittering with tears, was very pretty. 
“ Didn’t somebody once give some one a 
garment which scorched him up when he 
wore it — some woman who sent it because 
she loved the man so much ? ” 

“ The shirt, you mean, which Deianira 
sent to Hercules. Yes, Hercules was a 
good deal scorched.” 

“ And that necklace, which my husband 
gave me because he loved me so well, has 
scorched me horribly. It has nearly kill- 
ed me. It has been like the white ele- 
phant which the Eastern king gives to his 
subject when he means to ruin him. Only 
poor Florian didn’t mean to hurt me. He 
gave it all in love. If these people bring 
a lawsuit against me, Frank, j’^ou must 
manage it for me.” 

“ There will be no lawsuit. Your bro- 
ther-in-law will stop it.” 

“ I wonder who will really get the dia- 
monds after all, Frank ? They were very 
valuable. Only think tliat the ten thou- 
sand pounds should disappear in such a 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


way ! ” The subject was a very dangerous 
one, but there was a fascination about it 
which made it impossible for her to refrain 
from it. 

“ A dishonest dealer in diamonds will 
probably realize the plunder — after some 
years. There would be something very 
alluring in the theft of articles of great 
value, were it not that, when got, they at 
once become almost valueless by the diffi- 
culty of dealing with them. Supposing I 
had the necklace! ” 

“ I wish you had, Frank.” 

‘‘ I could do nothing with it. Ten sove- 
reigns would go further with me — or ten 
shillings. The burden of possessing it 
would in itself be almost more than I could 
bear. The knowledge that I had the thing, 
and might be discovered in having it, would 
drive me mad. By my own weakness I 
should be compelled to tell my secret to 
some one. And then I should never sleep 
for fear my partner in the matter should 
turn against me.” IIow well she under- 
stood it all ! How probable it was that 
Lord George should turn against her ! 
IIow exact was Frank’s description of that 
burden of a secret so heavy that it cannot 
be borne alone! “A little reflection,” 
continued Frank, “ soon convinces a man 
that rough downright stealing is an awk- 
ward, foolish trade ; and it therefore falls 
into the hands of those who want educa- 
tion for the higher efforts of dishonesty. 
To get into a bank at midnight and steal 
what little there may be in the till, or 
even an armful of banknotes, with the pro- 
bability of a policeman catching you as 
5'ou creep out of the chimney and through 
a hole, is clumsy work ; but to walk in 
amidst the smiles and bows of admiring 
managers and draw out money over the 
counter by thousands and tens of thou- 
sands, which you have never put in and 
which you can never repay, and which, 
when all is done, you have only borrowed 
— that is a great feat.” 

“ Do you really think so ? ” 

“ The courage, the ingenuity, and the 
self-confidence needed are certainly ad- 
mirable. And then there is a cringing 
and almost contemptible littleness about 
honesty, which hardly allows it to assert 
itself. The really honest man can never 
say a word to make those who don’t know 
of his honesty believe that it is there. He 
has one foot in the grave before his neigh- 
bors have learned that he is possessed of ' 


.235 

an article for the use of which they would 
so willingly have paid, could they have 
been made to SQp that it was there. The 
dishonest man almost doubts whether in 
him dishonesty is dishonest, let it be 
practised ever so widely. The honest 
man almost doubts whether his honesty 
be honest, unless it be kept hidden. Let 
two unknown men be competitors for any 
place, with nothing to guide the judges 
but their own words and their own looks, 
and who can doubt but the dishonest man 
would be chosen rather than the honest? 
Honesty goes about with a hang-dog look 
about him, as though knowing that he 
cannot be trusted till he be proved. Dis- 
honesty carries his eyes high, and assumes 
that any question respecting him must be 
considered to be unnecessary.” 

“Oh, Frank, what a philosopher you 
are.” 

“ A7ell, yes; meditating about your 
diamonds has brought my philosophy out. 
When do you think you will go to Scot- 
land?” 

“ I am hardly strong enough for the 
journey yet. I fear the cold so much.” 

“ You would not find it cold there by 
the seaside. To tell you the truth, Liz- 
zie, I want to get you out of this house. 
I don’t mean to say a word against Mrs. 
Carbuncle ; but after all that has occur- 
red, it would be better that you should be 
away. People talk about you and Lord 
George.” 

“ How can I help it, Frank ? ” 

“ By going away — that is, if I may 
presume one thing. I don’t want to pry 
into your secrets.” 

“ I have none from you.” 

“ Unless there be truth in the assertion 
that you are engaged to marry Lord 
George Carruthers.” 

“ There is no truth in it.” 

“And you do not wish to stay here in 
order that there may be an engagement? 

I am obliged to ask you home questions, 
Lizzie, as 1 could not otherwise advise 
you.” 

“ You do, indeed, ask home questions.” 

“ I will desist at once, if they be disa- 
greeable.” 

“ Frank, j'ou are false to me.” As she 
said this she rose in her bed, and sat with 
her eyes fixed upon his, and her thin hands 
stretched out upon the bedclothes. “ You 
know that I cannot wish to be engaged to 
him or to any other man. You know, 


230 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


better almost than I can know mj^self, 
how my heart stands. There has, at any 
rate, been no hypocrisy with me in regard 
to you. Everything has been told to you 
— at what cost I will not now say. The 
honest woman, I fear, fares worse even 
than the honest man of whom you spoke. 
I think you admitted that he would be 
appreciated at last. She to her dying 
day must pay the penalty of her trans- 
gressions. Honesty in a woman the world 
never forgives.” When she had done 
speaking, he sat silent by her bedside, 
but, almost unconsciously, he stretched 
out his left hand and took her right hand 
in his. For a few seconds she admitted 
this, and she lay there with their hands 
clasped. Then with a start she drew 
back her arm, and retreated as it were 
from his touch. “How dare you,” said 
she, “press my hand when you know 
that such pressure from you is treacher- 
ous and damnable ? ” 

“ Damnable, Lizzie ! ” 

“ Yes — damnable. I will not pick my 
words for you. Coming from you, what 
does such pressure mean ? ” 

“ Affection.” 

“Yes — and of what sort? You are 
wicked enough to feed my love by such 
tokens, when you know that you do not 
mean to return it. Oh, Frank, Frank, 
will you give me back my heart ? What 
was it that you promised me when we sat 
together upon the rocks at Portray ? ’ ’ 

It is inexpressibly difficult for a man to 
refuse the tender of a woman’s love. We 
may almost say that a man should do so 
as a matter of course — that the thing so 
offered, becomes absolutely valueless by 
the ofer — that the woman who can make 
it has put herself out of court by her own 
abandonment of the privileges due to her 
as a woman — that stern rebuke and even 
expressed contempt are justified by such 
conduct — and that the fairest beauty and 
most alluring charms of feminine grace 
should lose their attraction when thus 
tendered openly in the market. No doubt 
such is our theory as to love and lovemak- 
ing. But the action to be taken by us in 
matters as to which the plainest theory 
prevails for the guidance of our practice, 
depends so frequently on accompanying 
circumstances and correlative issues, that 
the theory, as often as not, falls to the 
ground. Frank could not despise this 
woman, and could not be stern to her. 


He could not bring himself to tell hei 
boldly that he would have nothing to say 
to her in the way of love. He made ex- 
cuses for her, and persuaded himself that 
there were peculiar circumstances in her 
position justifying unwomanly conduct, 
although, had he examined himself on the 
subject, he would have found it difficult 
to say what those circumstances were. 
She vras rich, beautiful, clever— and he 
was flattered. Nevertheless he knew 
that he could not marry her ; and he 
knew also that much as he liked her, he 
did not love her. “ Lizzie,” he said, “ I 
think you hardly understand my position. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, I do. That little girl has cozen- 
ed you out of a promise.” 

“If it be so, you would not have me 
break it? ” 

“Yes, I would, if you think she is not 
fit to be your wdfe. Is a man, such as 
you are, to be tied by the leg for life, 
have all his ambition clipped, and his 
high hopes shipwrecked, because a girl has 
been clever enough to extract a word from 
him? Is it not true that you are in debt?” 

“ What of that? At any rate, Lizzie, 
I do not want help from you.” 

“ That is so like a man’s pride ! Do w.o 
not all know that in such a career as you 
have marked out for yourself, wealth, or 
at any rate an easy income, is necessary ? 
Do 5 ^ou think that I cannot put two and 
two together ? Do you believe so meanly 
of me as to imagine that I should have 
said to you what 1 have said, if I did not 
know that I could help you? A man, I 
believe, cannot understand that love 
which induces a W’oman to sacrifice her 
pride simply for his advantage. I want 
to see you prosper. I want to see you a 
great man and a lord, and I know that you 
cannot become so without an income. 
Ah, I wish I could give you all that I 
have got, and save you from the encum- 
brance that is attached to it! ” 

It might be that he would then have 
told her of his engagement to Lucy, and of 
his resolution to adhere to that promise, 
had not Mrs. Carbuncle at the moment 
entered the room. Frank had been there 
for above an hour, and as Lizzie was still 
an invalid, and to some extent under the 
care of Mrs. Carbuncle, it was natural 
that that lady should interfere. “You 
know, my dear, you should not exhaust 
yourself altogether. Mr. Emilius is to 
come to you this afternoon.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


237 


“ Mr. Emilius ! ” said Greystock. 

“ Yes — the clergyman. Don’t you re- 
member him at Portray ? A dark man 
with eyes close together ! You used to 
be very wicked, and say that he was once 
a Jew boy in the streets.” Lizzie, as she 
spoke of her spiritual guide, was evident- 
ly not desirous of doing him much honor. 

“I remember him well enough. He 
made sheep’s eyes at Miss INIacnulty, and 
di’ank a great deal of wine at dinner.” 

“Poor Macnulty! I don’t believe a 
word about the wine ; and as for ^Macnul- 
ty, I don’t see why she should not be con- 
verted as well as another. He is coming 
here to read to me . I hope you don’ t obj ect . ” 

“ Not in the least — if you like it.” 

“ One does have solemn thoughts some- 
times, Prank — especially when one is ill.” 

“ Oh, yes. Well or ill, one does have 
solemn thoughts — ghosts, as it were, 
which will appear. But is Mr. Emilius 
good at laying such apparitions?” 

“ He is a clergyman, Mr. Greystock,” 
said Mrs. Carbuncle, with something of 
rebuke in her voice. » 

“ So they tell me. 1 was not present 
at his ordination, but I dare say it was 
done according to rule. When one re- 
jects what a deal of harm a bishop may 
do, one wishes that there was some surer 
way of getting bishops.” 

“Do you know anything against Mr. 
Emilius?” asked Lizzie. 

“ Nothing at all but his looks, and 
manners, and voice, unless it be that he 
preaches popular sermons, and drinks too 
much wine, and makes sheep’s eyes at 
Miss Macnulty. Look after your silver 
spoons, Mrs. Carbuncle, if the last thieves 
have left you any. You were asking after 
the fate of your diamonds, Lizzie. Per- 
haps they will endow a Protestant church 
in Mr. Emilius ’s native land.” 

Mr. Emilius did come and read to Lady 
Eustace that afternoon. A clergyman is 
as privileged to cmter the bedroom of a 
sick lady as is a doctor or a cousin. There 
was another clean cap, and another laced 
handkerchief, and on this occasion a little 
shawl over Lizzie’s shoulders. Mr.. Emi- 
lius first said a prayer, kneeling at Liz- 
zie’s bedside ; then he read a chapter in 
the Bible ; and after that he read the first 
half of the fourth canto of Childe Harold 
so well, that Lizzie felt for the moment 
that after all poetry was life, and life was 
poetry. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

“ I SUPPOSE I MAY SAY A WORD.’* 

The second robbery to which Lady Eus- 
tace had been subjected by no means de- 
creased the interest which was attached 
to her and her concerns in the fashiona- 
ble world. Parliament had now met, and 
the party at Matching Priory, Lady Glen- 
cora Palliser’s party in the country, had 
been to some extent broken up. All those 
gentlemen who were engaged in the ser- 
vice of Her IMajesty’s Government had 
necessarily gone to London, and they who 
had wives at Matching had taken their 
wives with them. Mr. and Mrs. Bonteen 
had seen the last of their holiday ; Mr. 
Palliser himself was, of course, at his post ; 
and all the private secretaries were with 
the public secretaries on the scene of ac- 
tion. On the 13th of February Mr. Pal- 
liser made his first great statement in Par- 
liament on the matter of the five-far- 
thinged penny, and pledged himself to do 
his very best to carry that stupendous 
measure through Parliament in the pres- 
ent session. The City men who were in 
the House that night, and all the directors 
of the Bank of England, were in the galle- 
ry, and every chairman of a great bank- 
ing company, and every Baring and every 
Rothschild, if there be Barings and Roth- 
schilds who have not been returned by con- 
stituencies, and have not seats in the 
House by right, agreed in declaring that 
the job in hand was too much for any one 
member or any one session. Some said 
that such a measure never could be pass- 
ed, because the unfinished work of one ses- 
sion could not be used in lessening the la- 
bors of the next. Everything mus^ be re- 
commenced ; and therefore, so said these 
hopeless ones, the penny with five far- 
things, the penny of which a hundred 
would make ten shillings, the halcyon 
penny, which would make all future pe- 
cuniary calculations easy to the meanest 
British capacit}’’, could never become the 
law of the land. Others, more hopeful, 
were willing to believe that gradually the 
thing would so sink into the minds of 
members of Parliament, of writers of lead- 
ing articles, and of the active public gen- 
erally, as to admit of certain established 
axioms being taken as established, and 
placed, as it were, beyond the procrasti- 
nating power of debate. It might, for in- 
stance, at last be taken for granted that a 


238 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


decimal system was desirable, so that a 
month or two of the spring need not be 
consumed op that preliminary question. 
But this period had not as yet been reach- 
ed, and it was thought by the entire City 
that Mr. Palliser was much too sanguine. 
It was so probable, many said, that he 
might kill himself by labor which would 
be Herculean in all but success, and that 
no financier after him would venture to 
face the task. It behooved Lady Glencora 
to see that her Hercules did not kill him- 
self. 

In this state of affairs Lady Glencora, 
into whose hands the custody of Mr. Palli- 
ser’s uncle, the duke, had now altogether 
fallen, had a divided duty between Match- 
ing and London. When the members of 
Parliament went up to London, she went 
there also, leaving some half-do^en friends 
whom she could trust to amuse the duke ; 
but she soon returned, knowing that there 
might be danger in a long absence. The 
duke, though old, was his own master ; 
he much affected the company of Madame 
Goesler, and that lady’s kindness to him 
was considerate and incessant ; but there 
might still be danger, and Lady Glencora 
felt that she was responsible that the old 
nobleman should do nothing, in the fee- 
bleness of age, to derogate from the splen- 
dor of his past life. What if some day 
his grace should be off to Paris and insist 
on making Madame Goesler a duchess in 
the chapel of the Embassy? Madame 
Goesler had hitherto behaved very well ; 
would probably continue to behave well. 
Lady Glencora really loved Madame Goes- 
ler. But then the interests at stake were 
very great ! So circumstanced, Lady Glen- 
cora Wnd herself compelled to be often 
on the road between Matching and Lon- 
don. 

But though she was burthened with 
great care. Lady Glencora by no means 
dropped her interest in the Eustace dia- 
monds ; and when she learned that on the 
top of the great Carlisle robbery a second 
robbery had been superadded, and that 
this had been achieved while all the Lon- 
don police were j^et astray about the for- 
mer operation, her solicitude was of course 
enhanced. The duke himself, too, took 
the matter up so strongly that he almost 
wanted to be carried up to London, with 
some view, as it was supposed by the la- 
dies who were so good to him, of seeing 
Lady Eustace personally. “ It’s out of 


the question, my dear,” Lady Glencora 
said to Madame Goesler, when the duke’s 
fancy was first mentioned to her by that 
lady. “ I told him that the trouble would 
be too much for him.” “ Of course it 
would be too much,” said Lady Glencora. 
“ It is quite out of the question.” Then 
after a moment she added in a whisper, 
“AYho knows but what he’d insist on 
marrying her? It isn’t every woman that 
can resist temptation.” Madame Goesler 
smiled and shook her head, but made no 
answer to Lady Glencora’s suggestion. 
Lady Glencora assured her uncle that every- 
thing should be told to him. She would 
write about it daily, and send him the lat- 
est news by the wires if the post should 
be too slow. “Ah, yes,” said the duke ; 
“ I like telegrams best. I think, j^ou know, 
that that Lord George Carruthers has had 
something to do with it. Don’t you, Ma- 
dame Goesler? ” It had long been evident 
that the duke was anxious that one of his 
own order should be proved to have been 
the thief, as the plunder taken was so 
lordly. 

In regard to Lizzie hei'self. Lady Glen- 
cora, on her return to London, took it into 
her head to make a diversion in our hero- 
ine’s favor. It had hitherto been a matter* 
of faith with all the liberal party that Lady 
Eustace had had something to do with 
stealing her own diamonds. That esprit 
de corps, which is the glorious characteris- 
tic of English statesmen, had caused the 
whole Government to support Lord Fawn, 
and Lord Fawn could only be supported on 
the supposition that Lizzie Eustace had 
been a wicked culprit. But Lady Glen- 
cora, though very true as a politician, was 
apt to have opinions of her own, and to 
take certain flights in which she chose that 
others of the party should follow her. She 
now expressed an opinion that Lady Eus- 
tace was a victim, and all the IMrs. Bon- 
teens, with some even of the Mr. Bon- 
teens, found themselves compelled to agree 
with her. She stood too high among her 
set to be subject to that obedience Avhich 
restrained others ; too high, also, for oth 
ers to resist her leading. As a member o 
a party she was erratic and dangerous, but 
from her position and peculiar tempera- 
ment she was powerful. When she de- 
clared that poor Lady Eustace was a vic- 
tim, others were obliged to say so too. 
This was particularly hard upon Lord 
Fawn, and the more so as Lady Glencora 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


239 


took upon her to assert that Lord Fawn 
had no right to jilt the young woman. 
And Lady Glencora had this to support 
her views — that for the last week past, in- 
deed evm* since the depositions which had 
been taken after the robbery in Hertford 
street, the police had expressed no fresh 
suspicions in regard to Lizzie Eustace. 
She heard daily from Barrington Erie that 
IMajor Mackintosh and Bunfit and Gager 
were as active as ever in their inquiries, 
that all Scotland Yard was determined to 
unravel the mystery, and that there were 
emissaries at w'ork tracking the diamonds 
at Hamburg, Paris, Vienna, and New York 
It had been w’hispered to ]Mr. Erie that the 
whereabouts of Patience Crabstick had 
been discovered, and that many of the lead- 
ing thieves in London were assisting the 
police ; but nothing more was done in the 
way of fixing any guilt upon Lizzie Eus- 
tace. “ Upon my word, I am beginning 
to think that she has been more sinned 
against than sinning.” This w'as said to 
Lady Glencora on the morning after ^Mr. 
Palliser’s great speech about the five far- 
things, by Barrington Erie, who, as it 
seemed, had been specially told ofi* by the 
party to watch this investigation. 

“lam sure she has had nothing to do 
with it. I have thought so ever since the 
last robbery. Sir Simon Slope told me 
yesterday afternoon that ]\Ir. Camperdown 
has given it up altogether.” Sir Simon 
Slope was the Solicitor-General of that day. 

“ It would be absurd for him to go on 
with his bill in Chancery now that the dia- 
monds are gone, unless he meant to make 
her pay for them.” 

“ That would be rank persecution. In- 
deed, she has been persecuted. I shall call 
upon her.” Then she wrote the folloAving 
letter to the duke : 

“ February 14, 18 — . 

“My dear Duke : Plantagenet w’as on 
his legs last night for three hours and 
three-quartei-s, and I sat through it all. 
As far as I could observe through the bars 
I was the only person in the House who 
listened to him. I’m sure Mr. Gresham 
was fast asleep. It was quite piteous to 
see some of them yawning. Plantagenet 
did it very well, and T almost think I un- 
derstood him. They seem to say that no- 
body on the other side will take trouble 
enough to make a regular opposition, but 
there are men in the City who will write 


letters to the newspapers, and get up a 
sort of Bank clamor. Plantagenet says 
nothing about it, but there is a do-or-die 
manner with him which is quite tragical. 
The House w'as up at eleven, when he 
came home and eat three oysters, drank a 
glass of beer, and slept well. They say 
the real work will come when it’s in Com- 
mittee ; that is, if it gets there. The bill 
is to be brought in, and will be read the 
first time next Monday week. 

“ As to the robberies, I believe there is 
no doubt that the police have got hold of 
the young woman. They don’t arrest her, 
but deal with her in a friendly sort of way. 
Barrington Erie says that a sergeant is to 
•marry her in order to make quite sure of 
her. I suppose they know their business ; 
but that w'ouldn’t strike me as being the 
safest way. They seem to think the dia- 
monds went to Paris but have since been 
sent on to New York. 

“As to the little wddow, I do believe 
she has been made a victim. She first lost 
her diamonds, and now her other jewels and 
her money have gone. I cannot see what 
she was to gain by treachery, and I think 
she has been ill-used. She is staying at 
the house of that Mrs. Carbuncle, but all 
the same I shall go and call on her. I 
wish you could see her, because she is 
such a little beauty, just what you would 
like ; -not so much color as our friend, but 
perfect fbatures, with infinite plaj*, not 
perhaps always in the best taste ; but 
^then we can’t have everything, can we, 
dear duke ? 

“As to the real thief— of course you 
must burn this at once, and keep it strict- 
ly private as coming from me — I fancy 
that delightful Scotch lord managed it 
entirely. The idea is, that he did it on 
commission for the Jew jewellers. I don’t 
suppose he had money enough to carry it 
out himself. As to the second robbery, 
whether he had or had not a hand in that, 
I can’t make up my mind. I don’t see 
why he shouldn’t. If a man does go into 
a business, he ought to make the best of 
it. Of course it was a poor thing after 
the diamonds ; but still it was worth hav- 
ing. There is some story about a Sir 
Griffin Tewett. He’s a real Sir Griffin, as 
you’ll find by the peerage. He was to 
marry a young woman, and our Lord 
George insists that he shall marry her. I 
don’t understand all about it, but the girl 
lives in the same house with Lady Eustace, 


240 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


and if I call I shall find out. They say 
that Sir GriflSn knows all about the neck- 
lace, and threatens to tell unless he is let 
off marrying. I rather think the girl is 
Lord George’s daughter, so that there is a 
thorough complication. 

“ I shall go down to Matching on Sat- 
urday. If anything turns up before that. 
I’ll wite again, or send a message. I 
don’t know whether Plantagenet will be 
able to leave London. He says he must 
be back on Monday, and that he loses too 
much time on the road. Kiss my little 
darlings for me,” — the darlings were Lady 
Glencora’s children, and the duke’s play- 
things, — “ and give my love to Madame 
Max. I suppose you don’t see much of 
the others. Most affectionately yours, 

> “ Glencora.” 

On the next day Lady Glencora actually 
did call in Hertford street and saw our 
friend Lizzie. She was told by the servant 
that Lady Eustace was in bed ; but, with 
her usual persistence, she asked questions, 
and when she found that Lizzie did receive 
visitors in her room, she sent up her card. 
The compliment was one much too great 
to be refused. Lady Glencora stood so‘ 
high in the world, that her countenance 
would be almost as valuable as another 
lover. If Lord George would keep her 
secret, and Lady Glencora would be her 
friend, might she not still be a successful 
woman ? So Lady Glencora Palliser was 
shown up to Lizzie’s chamber. Lizzie 
was found with her nicest nightcap and 
prettiest handkerchief, with a volume of 
Tennyson’s poetry, and a scent-bottle. She 
knew that it behooved her to be very clever 
at this interview. Her instinct told her 
that her first greeting should show more 
of surprise than of gratification. Accord- 
ingly, in a pretty, feminine, almost child- 
ish way, she was very much surprised. 
“ I’m doing the strangest thing in the 
world, I know, Lady Eustace,” said Lady 
Glencora with a smile. 

“I’m sure you mean to do a kind 
thing.” 

“ Well, yes, I do. I think we have not 
met since you were at my house near the 
end of last season.” 

■ “No, indeed. I have been in London 
six weeks, but have not been out much. 
For the last fortnight I have been in bed. 
I have had things to trouble me so much 
that they have made me ill.” 


“ So I have heard. Lady Eustace, and 1 
have just come to offer you my sym- 
pathy. AVhen I was told that you did 
see people, I thought that perhaps you 
would admit me.” 

“ So willingly. Lady Glencora !” 

“ I have heard, of course, of your terri- 
ble losses.” 

“ The loss has been as nothing to the 
vexation that has accompanied it. I don’t 
know how to speak of it. Ladies have 
lost their jewels before now, but I don’t 
know that any lady before me has ever 
been accused of stealing them herself.” 

“ There has been no accusation, sure- 
ly?” 

“ I havenH exactly been put in prison, 
Lady Glencora, but I have had policemen 
here wanting to search my things; and 
then you know yourself what reports 
have been spread.” 

“ Oh, yes, I do. Only for that, to tell 
you plainly, I should hardly have been 
here now.” Then Lady Glencora poured 
out her sympathy — perhaps with more 
eloquence and grace than discretion. 
She was, at any rate, both graceful and 
eloquent. “ As for the loss of the dia- 
monds, 1 think you bear it wonderfully,” 
said Lady Glencora. 

“ If you could imagine how little 1 care 
about it ! ” said Lizzie with enthusiasm. 
“ They had Idst the delight which I used 
to feel in them as a present from my hus- 
band. People had talked about them, 
and I had been threatened because 1 chose 
to keep what I knew to be my own. Of 
course I would not give them up. Would 
you have given them up. Lady Glencora ? ” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ Nor would I. But when once all 
that had begun, they became an irrepress- 
ible burden to me. I often used to say 
that 1 would throw them into the sea.” 

“ I don’t think I would have done that,” 
said Lady Glencora. 

“ Ah — you have never suffered as I have 
suffered.’’ 

“We never know where each other’s 
shoes pinch each other’s toes.” 

“You have never been left desolate. 
You have a husband and friends.” 

“ A husband that wants to put five far- 
things into a penny ! All is not gold that 
glistens. Lady Eustace.” 

“ You can never have known trials such 
as mine,” continued Lizzie, not under- 
standing in the least her new friend’s al- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


241 


tision to the great currency question. 

‘ Perhaps you may have heard that in the 
course of last summer I became engaged 
to marry a nobleman, with whom I am 
aware that you are acquainted.” This 
she said in her softest whisper, 

“Oh, yes — Lord Fawn. I know him 
very well. Of course I heard of it. We 
all heard of it.” 

“ And you have heard how he has treat- 
ed me?” 

“ Yes — indeed.” 

“ I will say nothing about him — to you. 
Lady Glencora. It would not be proper 
that I should do so. But all that came of 
this wretched necklace. After that, can 
5 ’ou wonder that I should say that I wish 
these stones had been thrown into the 
sea?” 

“ I suppose Lord Fawn will — will come 
ill right again now ? ’ ’ said Lady Glen- 
eora. 

“All right! ” exclaimed Lizzie in as- 
^nishment. 

“ Ilis objection to the marriage will 
now be over.” 

“ I’m sure I do not in the least know 
what are his lordship’s views,” said Liz- 
zie in scorn, “ and, to tell the truth, I do 
not very much care.” 

“ What I mean is, that he didn’t like 
you to have the Eustace diamonds ” 

“ They were not Eustace diamonds. 
They were my diamonds.” 

“ But he did not like you to have them ; 
and as they are now gone — forever ” 

“ Oh, yes,.they are gone forever.” 

“ His objection is gone too. Why don’t 
you write to him, and make him come and 
see you? That’s what I should do.” 

Lizzie, of course, repudiated vehement- 
ly any idea of forcing Lord Fawn into a 
marriage which had become distasteful to 
him — let the reason be what it might. 
“ His lordship is perfectly free, as far as I 
am concerned,” said Lizzie with a little 
show of anger. But all this Lady Glen- 
cora took at its worth. Lizzie Eustace 
had been a good deal knocked about, and 
Lady Glencora did not doubt but that she 
would be very glad to get back her be- 
trothed husband. The little woman had 
suffered hardships, so thought Lady Glen- 
cora — and a good thing would be done by 
bringing her into fashion, and setting the 
marriage up agaiq. As to Lord Fawn— 
the fortune was there, as good now as it 
had been when he first sought it ; and the 
16 


lady was very pretty, a baronet’s widow 
too— and in all respects good enough for 
Lord Fawn. A very pretty little baronet’s 
widow she was, with four thousand a year, 
and a house in Scotland, and a history. 
Lady Glencora determined that she would 
remake the match. 

“ I think, you know, friends who have 
been friends should be brought together. 1 
suppose I may say a word to Lord Fawn ? ” 

Lizzie hesitated fora moment before she 
answered, and then remembered that re- 
venge, at least, would be sweet to her. 
She had sworn that she would be revenged 
upon Lord Fawn. After all, might it not 
suit her best to carry out her oath by mar- 
rying him ? But whether so or otherwise, 
it could not but be well for her that he 
should be again at her feet. “ Yes, if you 
think good will come of it.” The acqui- 
escence was given with much hesitation ; 
but the circumstances required that it 
should be so, and Lady Glencora fully un- 
derstood the circumstances. ^V’hen she 
took her leave, Lizzie was profuse in her 
gratitude. “ Oh, Lady Glencora, it has 
been so good of you to come. Pray come 
again, if you can spare me another mo- 
ment.” Lady Glencora said that she 
would come again. 

During the visit she had asked some 
question concerning Lucinda and Sir Grif- 
fin, and had been informed that that mar- 
riage was to go on. A hint had been 
thrown out as to Lucinda’s parentage; 
but Lizzie had not understood the hint, 
and the question had not been pressed. 


CPAPTER LV 

QUINTS OR SEMITENTHS. 

The task which Lady Glencora had 
taken upon herself was not a very easy 
one. No doubt Lord Fawn was a man 
subservient to the leaders of his party, 
much afraid of the hard judgment of those 
with whom he was concerned, painfully 
open to impression from what he would 
have called public opinion, to a certain 
extent a coward, most anxious to do right 
so that he might not be accused of being 
in the wrong, and at the same time gifted 
with but little of that insight into things 
which teaches men to know what is right 
and what is wrong. Lady Glencora, hav- 
ing perceived all this, felt that he was a 
man upon whom a few words from her 
might have an effect. But even Lady 


212 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Glencora might hesitate to tell a gentle- 
man that he ought to marry a lady, when 
the gentleman had already declared his in- 
tention of not marrying and had attempt- 
ed to justify his decision almost publicly 
by a reference to the lady’s conduct ! Lady 
Glencora almost felt that she had under- 
biken too much as she turned over in her 
mind the means she had of performing her 
promise to Lady Eustace. 

The five-farthing bill had been laid upon 
the table on a Tuesday, and was to be 
read the first time on the following Mon- 
day week. On the Wednesday Lady Glen- 
cora had written to the duke, and had call- 
ed in Hertford Street. On the following 
Sunday she was at Matching, looking after 
the duke ; but she returned to London on 
the Tuesday, and on the Wednesday there 
was a little dinner atlNIr. Palliser’s house, 
given avowedly with the object of further 
friendly discussion respecting the new 
Palliser penny. The prime minister was 
to be there, and Mr. Bonteen, and Bar- 
rington Erie, and those special members 
of the Government who would be availa- 
ble for giving special help to the financial 
Hercules of the day. A question, perhaps 
of no great practical importance, had oc- 
curred to Mr. Palliser, but one which, if 
overlooked, might be fatal to the ultimate 
success of the measure. There is so much 
in a name, and then an ounce of ridicule 
is often more potent than a hundredweight 
of argument. By what denomination 
should the fifth part of a penny be here- 
after known ? Some one had, ill-natured- 
ly, whispered to Mr. Palliser that a far- 
thing meant a fourth, and at once there 
arose a new trouble, which for a time bore 
very heavily on him. Should he boldly dis- 
regard the original meaning of the useful 
old word ; or should he venture on the 
dangers of new nomenclature ? October, 
as he said to himself, is still the tenth 
month of the year, November the eleventh, 
and so on, though by these names they are 
so plainly called the eighth and ninth. 
All France tried to rid itself of this ab- 
surdity and failed. Should he stick by 
the farthing ; or should he call it a fifth- 
ing, a quint, or a semitenth? “ There’s 
the ‘ Fortnightly Review ’ comes out but 
once a month,” he said to his friend Mr. 
Bonteen, “ and I’m told that it does very 
well.” Mr. Bonteen, who was a rational 
man, thought the “ Review ” would do 
better if it were called by a more rational 


name, and was very much in favor of “ a 
quint.” Mr. Gresham had expressed an 
opinion, somewhat off hand, that English 
people would never be got to talk about 
quints, and so there was a difficulty. A 
little dinner was therefore arranged, and 
Mr. Palliser, as was his custom in such 
matters, put the affirir of the dinner into 
his wife’s hands. When he was told that 
she had included Lord FaMm among the 
guests he opened his eyes. Lord Fawn, 
who might be good enough at the India 
Office, knew literally nothing about the 
penny. “ He’ll take it as the greatest 
compliment in the world,” said Lady Glen- 
cora. “ 1 don’t want to pay Lord Fawn 
a compliment,” said Mr. Palliser. “ But 
I do,” said Lady Glencora. And so the 
matter was arranged. 

It was a very nice little dinner. Mrs. 
Gresham and Mrs. Bonteen were there, 
and the great question of the day was set- 
tled in two minutes, before the guests went 
out of the drawing-room. “ Stick to your 
farthing,” said Mr. Gresham. 

“ I think so,” said Mr. Palliser. 

“ Quint’s a very easy word,” said Mr. 
Bonteen. 

“But squint is an easier,” said Mr. 
Gresham, with all a prime minister’s jo- 
cose authority. 

“ They’d certainly be called cock-eyes, 
said Barrington Erie. 

“ There’s nothing of the sound of a 
quarter in farthing,” said Mr. Palli.ser. 

“ Stick to the old word,” said Mr. 
Gresham. And so the matte;- was decided 
while Lady Glencora was flattering Lord 
Fawn as to the manner in which he had 
finally arranged the affiiir of the Sawab of 
of ^Mygawb. Then they went down to 
dinner, and not a word more was said that 
evening about the new penny by Mr. Palli- 
ser. 

Before dinner Lady Glencora had ex- 
acted a promise from Lord Fawn that he 
would return to the drawing-room. Lady 
Glencora was very clever at such work, 
and said nothing then of her purpose. She 
did not want her guests to run away, and 
therefore Lord Fawn— Lord Fawn e.spe- 
cially — must stay. If he were to go there 
would be nothing spoken of all the even- 
ing, but that weary newpenny. To oblige 
her he must remain ; and, of course, he 
did remain. “ Whom do you think I saw 
the other day?” said Lady Glencora, 
when she got her victim into a corner. Of 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


243 


course Lord Fawn had no idea whom she 
might have seen. Up to that moment no 
suspicion of w'hat was coming upon him 
had crossed his mind. “ I called upon 
poor Lady Eustace and found her in bed.” 
Then did Lord Fawn blush up to the roots 
of his hair, and for a moment he was 
stricken dumb. “ I do feel for her so 
much ! I think she has been so hardly 
used ! ” 

He was obliged to say something. “ My 
name has of course been much mixed up 
with hers.” 

“ Yes, Lord Fawn, I know it has. And 
it is because I am so sure of your high- 
minded generosity and — and thorough de- 
votion, that I have ventured to speak to 
you. I am sure there is nothing you would 
wish so much as to get at the truth.” 

“ Certainly, Lady Glencora.” 

“ All manner of stories have been told 
about her, and, as I believe, without the 
slightest foundation. They tell me now 
that she had an undoubted right to keep 
the diamonds ; that even if Sir Florian did 
not give them to her, they were hers un- 
der his will. Those lawyers have given 
up all idea of proceeding against her.” 

“ Because thenecklace has been stolen.” 

“ Altogether independently of that. Do 
you see Mr. Eustace, and ask him if what 
I say is not true. If it had not been her 
own she would have been responsible for 
the value, even though it were stolen ; 
and with such a fortune as hers they would 
never have allowed her to escape. They 
were as bitter against her as they could 
be ; weren’t they? ” 

“Mr. Camperdown thought that the 
property should be given up.” 

“ Oh yes ; that’s the man’s name ; a 
horrid man. I am told that he was real- 
ly most cruel to her. And then, because 
a lot of thieves had got about her — after 
the diamonds, you know, like flies round 
a honey-pot — and took first her necklace 
and then her money, they were impudent 
enough to say that she had stolen her own 
things ! ” 

“ I don’t think they quite said that. 
Lady Glencora.” ' 

“ Something very much like it. Lord 
Fawn. I have no doubt in my own mind 
who did steal all the things.” 

“ Who was it? ” 

“Oh, one mustn’t mention names in 
such an afiair without evidence. At any 
rate she has been very badly treated, and 


I shall take her up. If I w'ere you 1 would 
go and call upon her. I would indeed. 1 
think you owe it to her. Well, duke, 
what do you think of Plantagenet’s penny 
now? AYill it ever be w'orth two half- 
pence ? ” This question was asked of the 
Duke of St. Bungay, a great nobleman 
w’hom all Liberals loved, and a member of 
the Cabinet. He had come in since din- 
ner, and had been asking a question or 
two as to what had been decided. 

“ Well, yes ; if properly invested I 
think it will. I’m glad it is not to contain 
five semitenths. A semitenth ■would never 
have been a popular form of money in 
England. We hate new names so much 
that we have not yet got be 3 'ond talking 
of fourpenny bits.” 

“ There’s a great deal in a name, isn’t 
there ? You don’t think they’ll call them 
Pallisers, or Palls, or anything of that 
sort, do 3 'ou ? I shouldn’t like to hear that 
under the new regime two lollypops 'W'ere 
to cost three Palls. But they say it never 
can be carried this session, and we shan’t 
be in, in the next j^ear.” 

“ Who says so? Don’t be such a pro- 
phetess of evil. Lady Glencora. I mean 
to be in for the next three sessions, and ] 
mean to see Palliser’s measure carried 
through the House of Lords next session. 
I shall be paying for my mutton chops at 
so many quints a chop yet. Don’t j^ou 
think so. Fawn ? ” 

“ I don’t kno’W tvdiat to think,” said 
Lord Fawn, whose mind was intent on 
other matters. After that he left the 
room as quickly as he could, and escaped 
out into the street. His mind was very 
much disturbed. If Lady Glencora wms 
determined to take up the cudgels for the 
woman he had rejected, the comfort and 
peace of his life would be over. He knew 
well enough how strong was Lady Glen- 
cora. 


CHAPTER LVI. 
job’s comfouters. 

Mrs Carbuncle and Lady Eustace 
had now been up in town between 
six and seven weeks, and the record 
of their doings has necessarily dealt chiefly 
with robberies and the rumors of robberies. 
But at intervals the minds of the two ladies 
had been intent on other things. The 
former was still intent on marrying hei 
niece, Lucinda Roanoke, to Sir Griffin, and 


244 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


the latter had never for a moment forgotten 
the imperative duty which lay upon her 
of revenging herself upon Lord Fawn. 
The match between Sir Griffin and Lucin- 
da was still to be a match. Mrs. Car- 
buncle persevered in the teeth both of the 
gentleman and of the lady, and still prom- 
ised herself success. And our Lizzie, in 
the midst of all her troubles, had not been 
idle. In doing her justice we must ac- 
knowledge that she had almost abandon- 
ed the hope of becoming Lady Fawn. 
Other hopes and other ambitions had come 
upon her. Latterly the Corsair had been 
all in all to her, with exceptional moments 
in which she told herself that her heart 
belonged exclusively to her cousin Frank. 
But Lord Fawn’s offences were not to be 
forgotten, and she continually urged upon 
her cousin the depth of the wrongs which 
she had suffered. 

On the part of Frank Gre3^stock there 
was certainly no desire to let the Under- 
secretary escape. It is hoped that the 
reader, to whom every tittle of this story 
has been told without reserve, and every 
secret unfolded, will remember that others 
were not treated with so much open can- 
dor. The reader knows much more of 
Lizzie Eustace than did her cousin Frank. 
He, indeed, was not quite in love with 
Lizzie ; but to him she was a pretty, grace- 
ful 3^oung woman, to whom he was bound 
by many ties, and who had been cruelly 
injured. Dangerous she was doubtless, 
and perhaps a little artificial. To have 
had her married to Lord Fawn would have 
been a good thing, and would still be a 
good thing. According to all the rules 
known in such matters Lord Fawn was 
bound to marry her. He had become en- 
gaged to her, and Lizzie had done nothing 
to forfeit her engagement. As to the 
necklace, the plea made for jilting her on 
that ground was a disgraceful pretext. 
Everybody was beginning to perceive that 
Mr. Camperdown would never have suc- 
ceeded in getting the diamonds from her, 
even if they had not been stolen. It was 
“preposterous,” as Frank said over and 
over again to his friend Herriot, that a 
man when he was engaged to a lady, 
should take upon himself to judge her con- 
duct as Lord Fawn had done, and then 
ride out of his engagement on a verdict 
found by himself. Frank had therefore 
willingly displayed alacrity in persecuting 
his lordship, and had not been altogether 


without hope that he might drive the two 
into a marriage yet, in spite of the prote.s- 
tations made by Lizzie at Portray. • 

Lord Fawn had certainly not spent a 
happy winter. Between Mrs. Hittaway 
on one side and Frank Greystock on the 
other, his life had been a burthen to him. 
It had been suggested to him by various 
people that he was behaving badly to the 
lady, who was represented as having been 
cruelly misused by fortune and by himself. 
On the other hand it had been hinted to 
him, that nothing was too bad to believe 
of Lizzie Eustace, and that no calamity 
could be so great as that by which he 
would be overwhelmed were he still to al- 
low himself to be forced into that marriage. 
“ It would be better,” Mrs. Hittaway had 
said, “ to retire to Ireland at once and cul- 
tivate your demesne in Tipperary.” This 
was a grievous sentence, and one which 
had greatly excited the brother’s wrath ; 
but it had shown how verj^ strong was his 
sister’s opinion against the lady to whom 
he had unfortunately offered his hand. 
Then there came to him a letter from Mr. 
Grej^stock, in which he was asked for his 
“ written explanation.” If there be a pro- 
ceeding which an official man dislikes 
worse than another, it is a demand for a 
written explanation. “ It is impossible,” 
Frank had said, “ that 3^our conduct to my 
cousin should be allowed to drop without 
further notice. Hers has been without re- 
proach. Your engagement with her has 
been made public, chiefly by you, and it 
is out of the question that she should be 
treated as you are treating her, and that 
your lordship should escape without pun- 
ishment.” What the punishment was to 
be he did not say ; but there did come a 
punishment on Lord Fawn from the eyes 
of every man whose eyes met his own, and 
in the tones of every voice that addressed 
him. The looks of the very clerks in the 
India Office accused him of behaving bad- 
ly to a young woman, and the doorkeeper 
at the House of Lords seemed to glance 
askance at him. And now Lady Glencora, 
who was the social leader of his own part3’, 
the feminine pole-star of the liberal heav- 
ens, the most popular and the most daring 
woman in London, had attacked him per- 
sonally, and told him that he ought to call 
on Lady Eustace ! 

Let it not for a moment be supposed that 
Lord Fawn was without conscience in the 
matter or indifferent to moral obligations 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


245 


There was not a man in London less will- 
ing to behave badly to a young woman 
than Lord Fawn ; or one who would more 
diligently struggle to get back to the right 
path, if convinced that he was astray. But 
he was one who detested interference in 
his private matters, and who was nearly 
driven mad between his sister and Frank 
Gre3'stock. When he left Lady Glencora’s 
house he walked toward his own abode 
with a dark cloud upon his brow. He 
was at first very angry with Lady Glenco- 
ra. Even her position gave her no right 
to meddle with his most private affairs as 
she had done. He would resent it, and 
would quarrel with Lady Glencora. What 
right could she have to advise him to call 
upon any woman? But by degrees this 
wrath died away, and gave place to fears, 
and qualms, and inward questions. He, 
too, had found a change in general opin- 
ion about the diamonds. When he had 
taken upon himself with a high hand to 
dissolve his own engagement, everybody 
had, as he thought, acknowledged that 
Lizzie Eustace was keeping property which 
did not belong to her. Now people talked 
of her losses as though the diamonds had 
been undoubtedly her own. On the next 
morning Lord Fawn took an opportunity 
of seeing Mr. Camperdown. 

“ My dear lord,” said Mr. Camperdown, 
“ I shall wash my hands of the matter al- 
together. The diamonds are gone, and 
the questions now are, who stole them, 
and where are they ? In our business we 
can’t meddle with such questions as 
those.” 

“You will drop the bill in Chancery 
then?” 

“ What good can the bill do us when 
the diamonds are gone ? If Lady Eustace 
had anything to do with the robbery ” 

“ You suspect her, then? ” 

“No, my lord ; no. I cannot say that. 
I have no right to say that. Indeed it is 
not Lady Eustace that I suspect. She has 
got into bad hands, perhaps ; but I do not 
think that she is a thief.” 

“ You were suggesting that, if she had 
anything to do with the robbery ” 

“Well; 3’es; if she had, it Avould not 
be for us to take steps against her in the 
matter. In fact, the trustees have decided 
that they will do nothing more, and my 
hands are tied. If the minor, when he 
comes of age, claims the property from 
them, they will prefer to replace it. It 


isn’t very likely; but that’s what they 
say.” 

“ But if it was an heirloom ,” sug- 

gested Lord Fawn, going back to the old 
claim. 

“That’s exploded,” said Mr. Camper- 
down. “ Mr. Dove was quite clear about 
that.” 

This was the end of the filing of that bill 
in Chancery as to which Mr. Camperdown 
had been so verj’^ enthusiastic ! Now it 
certainly was the case that poor Lord Fawn 
in his conduct toward Lizzie had trusted 
greatly to the support of Mr. Camper- 
down’s legal proceeding. The world could 
hardly have expected him to marry a wo- 
man against whom a bill in Chancery was 
being carried on for the recovery of dia- 
monds which did not belong to her. But 
that support was now altogether with- 
drawn from him. It was acknowledged 
that the necklace was not an heirloom, 
clearly acknowledged by jMr. Camper- 
down ! And even INIr. Camperdown Avould 
not express an opinion that the lady had 
stolen her own diamonds. ^ 

How would it go with him, if, after all, 
he were to marry her ? The bone of con- 
tention between them had at any rate been 
made to vanish. The income w’as still 
there, and Lady Glencora Palliser had all 
but promised her friendship. As he en- 
tered the India Office on his return from 
Mr. Camperdown’s chambers, he almost 
thought that that would be the best way 
out of his difficulty. In his room he found 
his brother-in-law, Mr. Hittaway, wait- 
ing for him. It is almost necessary that 
a man should have some friend whom he 
can trust in delicate affairs, and Mr. Hit- 
taway was selected as Lord Fawn’s friend 
He was not at all points the man wdiom 
Lord Fawn would have chosen, but for 
their close connection . ^Ir . Hittaway was 
talkative, perhaps a little loud, and too 
apt to make capital out of every incident 
of his life. But confidential friends are 
not easily found, and one does not wish to 
increase the circle to whom one’s family 
secrets must become known. Mr. Hitta- 
way was at any rate zealous for the Fawn 
family, and then his character as an offi- 
cial man stood high. He had been asked 
on the previous evening to step across from 
the Civil Appeal Office to give his opinion 
respecting that letter from Frank Grey- 
stock demanding a written explanation. 
The letter had been sent to him ; and Mr 


246 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Hittaway had carried it liome and shown 
it to his wife. “ He’s a cantankerous 
Tory, and determined to make himself 
disagreeable,” said Mr. Hittaway, taking 
the letter from his pocket and beginning 
the conversation. Lord Fawn seated him- 
self in his great arm-chair, and buried his 
face in his hands. “ I am disposed, after 
much consideration, to advise you to take 
no notice of the letter,” said Mr. Hitta- 
way, giving his counsel in according with 
instructions received from his wife. Lord 
Fawn still buried his face. “ Of course 
the thing Ls painful, very painful. But 
out of two evils one should choose the 
least. The writer of this letter is alto- 
gether unable to carry out his threat.” 
” What can the man do to him ! ” Mrs. 
Hittaway had asked, almost snapping at 
her husband as she did so. “ And then,” 
continued Mr. Hittaway, “ we all know 
that public 'opinion is with you altogether. 
The conduct of Lady Eustace is notori- 
ous.’’ 

“Everybody is taking her part,” said 
Lord Fawn, almost crying. 

“ Surely not.” 

“ Yes ; they are. The bill in Chancery 
has been withdrawn, and it’s my belief 
tliat if the necklace were found to-morrow, 
there would be nothing to prevent her 
keeping it, just as she did before.” 

“ But it was an heirloom? ” 

“ No, it wasn’t. The lawyers were all 
wrong about it. As far as I can see, law- 
yers always are wrong. About those nine 
lacs of rupees for the Sawab Finlay was 
all wrong. Camperdown owns that he 
was wrong. If, after all, the diamonds 
were hers, I’m sure I don’t know what I 
am to do. Thank you , Hittawa}’’, for com- 
ing over. That’ll do for the present. Just 
leave that ruffian’s letter, and I’ll think 
about it.” 

This was considered by Mrs. Hittaway 
to be a very bad state of things, and there 
was great consternation in Warwick 
Square when Mr. Hittaway told his wife 
this new story of her brother’s weakness. 
She was not going to be weak. She did 
not intend to withdraw her opposition to 
the marriage. She was not going to be 
frightened by Lizzie Eustace and Frank 
Greystock, knowing as she did that they 
were lovers, and very improper lovers, too. 
“ Of course she stole them herself,” said 
Mrs. Hittaway; “ and I don’t doubt but 
she stole her own money afterwards. 


There’s nothing she wouldn’t do I’d 
sooner see Frederic in his grave than mar- 
ried to such a woman as that. Men don’t 
know how sly women can be ; that’s the 
truth. And Frederic has been so spoilt 
among them down at Richmond, that he 
has no real judgment left. I don’t sup- 
pose he means to marry her.” 

“ Upon my word I don’t know,” said 
Mr. Hittaway. Then Mrs. Hittaway made 
up her mind that she would at once write 
a letter to Scotland. 

There was an old lord about London in 
those days, or rather one who was an 
old Liberal but a young lord, one Lord 
Mount Thistle, who had sat in the Cabi- 
net, and had lately'’ been made a peer when 
his place in the Cabinet was wanted. He 
was a pompous, Avould-be important, silly 
old man, well acquainted with all the tra- 
ditions of his party, and perhaps on that 
account useful, 'but a bore, and very apt 
to meddle when he was not wanted. Lady 
Glencora, on the day after her dinner par- 
ty, whispered into his ear that Lord Fawn 
was getting himself into trouble, and that 
a few words of caution, coming to him 
from one whom he respected so much as 
he did Lord Mount Thistle, would be of 
service to him. Lord Mount Thistle had 
known Lord Fawn’s father, and declared 
himself at once to be quite entitled to in- 
terfere. “ He is really behaving badly to 
Lady Eustace,” said Lady Glencora, “ and 
I don’t think that he knows it.” Lord 
Mount Thistle, proud of a commission from 
the hands of Lady Glencora, went almost 
at once to his old friend’s son. He found 
him at the House that night, and whis- 
pered his few words of caution in one of 
the lobbies. 

“ I know 5’ou will excuse me. Fawn,” 
Lord Mount Thistle said, “ but people 
seem to think that you are not behaving 
quite well to Lady Eustace.” 

“ Whatpeople ? ” demanded Lord Fawn. 

“M}' dear fellow, that is a question 
that cannot be answered. You know that 
I am the last man to interfere if I didn’t 
think it my duty as a friend. You were 
engaged to her?” — Lord Fawn only 
frowned. “ If so,” continued the late 
cabinet minister, “ and if you have brok- 
en it off, you ought to give your reasons. 
She has a right to demand as much as 
that.” 

On the next morning, Friday, there 
came to him the note which Lady Glen- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


217 


com had recommended Lizzie to write. 
It was very short. “ Had you not better 
come and see me ? You can hardly think 
that things should be left as they are now. 
L. E. — Hertford street, Thursday.” He 
had hoped — he had ventured to hope — 
that things might be left, and that they 
would arrange themselves ; that he could 
throw aside his engagement without fur- 
ther trouble, and that the subject would 
drop. But it was not so. His enemy, 
Frank Grej’stock, had demanded from 
him a “ writen explanation ” of his con- 
duct. Mr. Camperdown had deserted 
him. Lady Glencora Palliser, with whom 
he had not the honor of any intimate ac- 
quaintance, had taken upon herself to give 
him advice. Lord Mount Thistle had 
found fault with him. And now there 
had come a note from Lizzie Eustace her- 
self, which he could hardly venture to 
leave altogether unnoticed. On that 
Friday he dined at his club, and then 
went to his sister’s house in Warwick 
Square. If a^istance might be had any- 
where, it would be from his sister. She, 
at any rate, would not want courage in 
carrying on the battle on his behalf. 

“ Ill-used ! ” she said, as soon as they 
were closeted together. “ VVTio dares to 
say so? ” 

“ That old fool, Mount Thistle, has been 
with me.” 

” I hope Frederick, you don't mind what 
such a man as that says. He has proba- 
bly been prompted by some friend of hers. 
And who else?” 

“Camperdown turns round now and 
says that they don’t mean to do anything 
more about the necklace. Lady Glencora 
Palliser told me the other day that alb the 
world believes that the thing was her 
own.” 

“ What does Lady Glencora Palliser 
know about it ? If Lady Glencora Palli- 
ser would mind her own affairs it would 
be much better for her. I remember 
when she had troubles enough of her own, 
without meddling with other people’s.” 

“ And now I’ve got this note.” Lord 
Fawn had already shown Lizzie’s few 
scrawled words to his sister. “ I think I 
must go and see her.” 

“ Do no such thing, Frederic.” 

“Why not? I must answer it, and 
what can I say ?” 

“If you go there, that woman will be 
your wife, you’ll never have a happy day 


again as long as you live. The match is 
broken off, and she knows it. I shouldn’t 
take the slightest notice of her, or of her 
cousin, or of any of them. If she chooses 
to bring an action against you, that is 
another thing.” 

Lord Fawn paused for a few moments 
before he answered. “ I think I ought to 
go,” he said. 

“ And I am sure that you ought not. 
It is not only about the diamonds, though 
that was quite enough to break off any 
engagement. Have you forgotten what I 
told you that the man saw at Portray ?” 

“ I don’t know that the man spoke the 
truth.” 

“ But he did.” 

“And. I hate that kind of espionage. 
It is so very likely that mistakes should 
be made.” 

“ When she was sitting in his arms — 
and kissing him ! If you choose to do it, 
Frederic, of course you must. We can’t 
prevent it. You are free to marry any 
one 3^011 please.” 

“ I’m not talking of marrying her.” 

“ What do you suppose she wants you 
to go there for? As for political life, I 
am quite sure it would be the death of 
jw. If I were you I wouldn’t go near 
her. You have got out of the scrape, and 
I would remain out.” 

“But I haven’t got out,” said Lord 
Fawn. 

On the next day, Saturday, he did noth- 
ing in the matter. He went down, as was 
his custom, to Richmond, and did not 
once mention Lizzie’s name. Lady Fawn 
and her daughters never spoke of her 
now — neither of her, nor in his presence, 
of poor Lucy Morris. But on his return 
to London on the Sunday evening he found 
another note from Lizzie. “You will 
hardly have the hardihood to leave my 
note unanswered. Pray let me know 
when j'ou will come to me.” Some an- 
swer must, as he felt, be made to her. 
For a moment he thought of asking his 
mother to call ; but he at once saw that by 
doing so he might lay himself open to ter- 
rible ridicule. Could he induce Lord 
Mount Thistle to be his Mercury? It 
would, he felt, be quite impossible to 
make Lord Mount Thistle understand all 
the facts of his position. His sister, Mrs. 
Hittaway, might have gone, were it not 
that she herself was violently opposed to 
any visit. The more he thought of it the 


248 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


more convinced he became that, should it 
be known that he had received two such 
notes from a lady and that he had not an- 
swered or noticed them, the world would 
judge him to have behaved badly. So at 
last he wrote — on that Sunday evening — 
fixing a somewhat distant day for his visit 
to Hertford street. His note was as fol- 
lows : 

“ Lord Fawn presents his compliments 
to Lady Eustace. In accordance with the 
wish expressed in Lady Eustace’s two 
notes of the 23d instant and this date, 
Lord Fawn will do himself the honor of 
waiting upon Lady Eustace on Saturday 
next, March 3d, at 12, noon. Lord Fawn 
had thought that under circumstances as 
they now exist, no further personal inter- 
view could lead to the happiness of either 
party ; but as Lady Eustace thinks other- 
wise, he feels himself constrained to com- 
ply with her desire. 

“ Sunday evening, February 25, 18 — .” 

“ I am going to see her in the course of 
this week,” he said, in answer to a fur- 
ther question from Lady Glencora, who, 
chancing to meet him in society, had 
again addressed him on the subject. He 
lacked the courage to tell Lady Glencora 
to mind her own business and to allow 
him to do the same. Had she been a lit- 
tle less great than she was, either as re- 
garded herself or her husband, he would 
have done so. But Lady Glencora was 
the social queen of the party to which he 
belonged, and Mr. Palliser was Chancel- 


lor of the Exchequer, and would some day 
be Duke of Omnium. 

“ As you are great, be merciful, Lord 
Fawn,” said Lady Glencora. “ You men, 
1 believe, never 'realize what it is that 
women feel when they love. It is my be- 
lief that she will die unless you are re- 
united to her. And then she is so beauti- 
ful.” 

“It is a subject that I cannot discuss. 
Lady Glencora.” 

“ 1 dare say not. And I’m sure I am 
the last person to wish to give you pain. 
But you see, if the poor lady has done 
nothing to merit your anger, it does seem 
rather a strong measure to throw her off 
and give her no reason whatever. How 
would you defend yourself, suppose she 
published it all ? ” Lady Glencora ’s cour- 
age was very great, and perhaps we may 
say her impudence also. This last ques- 
tion Lord Fawn left unanswered, walking 
away in great dudgeon. 

In the course of the week he told his 
sister of the interview which he had prom- 
ised, and she endeavored to induce him to 
postpone it till a certain man should ar- 
rive from Scotland. She had written for 
Mr. Andrew Gowran — sending down 
funds for Mr. Gowran ’s journey — so that 
her brother might hear Mr. Gowran’s ev- 
idence out of Mr. Gowran’s own mouth. 
Would not Frederic postpone the inter- 
view till he should have seen Mr. Gow- 
ran? But to this request Frederic de- 
clined to accede. He had fixed a day and 
an hour. He had made an appointment 
Of course he must keep it. 


CHAPTER EVIL 

HUMPTY DUMPTY. 

T he robbery at the house in Hertford 
street took place on the 30th of Janu- 
ary, and on the morning of the 28th of 
February Bunfit and Gager were sitting to- 
gether in a melancholy, dark little room in 
Scotland Yard, discussing the circumstan- 
ces of that nefarious act. A month had 
gone by and nobody was yet in custody. 
A month had passed since that second 
robbery ; but nearly eight weeks had 
passed since the robbery at Carlisle, and 
even that was still a mystery. The news- 
papers had been loud in their condemna- 
tion of the police. It had been asserted 
over and over again that in no other civil- 
ized country in the world could so great 
an amount of property have passed 
through the hands of thieves without 
leaving some clue by which the police 
would have made their way to the truth. 
Major Mackintosh had been declared to 
be altogether incompetent, and all the 
B unfits and Gagers of the force had been 
spoken of as drones and moles and os- 
triches. They were idle and blind, and 
so stupid as to think that when they saw 
nothing others saw less. The Major, 
who was a broad-shouldered, philosophi- 
cal man, bore all this as though it were, 
of necessity, a part of the burthen of his 
profession : but the Bunfits and Gagers 
were very angry, and at their wits’ ends. 
It did not occur to them to feel animosity 
against the newspapers which abused 
them. The thieves who would not be 
caught were their great enemies; and 
there was common to them a conviction 
that men so obstinate as these thieves — 
men to whom a large amount of grace and 
liberty for indulgence had accrued — should 
be treated with uncommon severity when 
they were caught. There was this excuse 
always on their lips, that had it been an 
affair simply of thieves, such as thieves 
ordinarily are, everything would havei 
been discovered long since. But when 
lords and ladies with titles come to be 
mixed up with such an affair — folk in 
whose house a policeman can’t have his 


will at searching and browbeating— how 
is a detective to detect anything ? 

Bunfit and Gager had both been 
driven to recast their theories as to the 
great Carlisle affair by the circumstances 
of the later affair in Hertford street. 
They both thought that Lord George had 
been concerned in the robbery. That, in- 
deed, had now become the general opinion 
of the world at large. He was a man of 
doubtful character, with large expenses, 
and with no recognized means of living. 
He had formed a great intimacy with 
Lady Eustace at a period in which she 
was known to be carrying these diamonds 
about with her, had been staying with her 
at Portray Castle when the diamonds were 
there, and had been her companion on the 
journey during which the diamonds were 
stolen. The only men in London supposed 
to be capable of dealing advantageously 
with such a property were Harter and 
Benjamin, as to whom it was known that 
they were conversant with the existence 
of the diamonds, and known also that 
they were in the habit of having dealings 
with Lord George. It was, moreover, 
known that Lord George had been closeted 
with Mr. Benjamin on the morning after 
his arrival in London. These things put 
together made it almost a certainty that 
Lord George had been concerned in the 
matter. Bunfit had always been sure of 
it. Gager, though differing much from 
Bunfit as to details, had never been un- 
willing to suspect Lord George. But the 
facts known could not be got to dovetail 
themselves pleasantly. If Lord George 
had possessed himself of the diamonds at 
Carlisle, or with Lizzie’s connivance be- 
fore they reached Carlisle, then, why had 
there been a second robbery ? Bunfit, who 
was very profound in his theory, suggested 
that the second robbery was an additional 
plant, got up with the view of throwing 
more dust into the eyes of the police 
Patience Crabstick had, of course, been 
one of the gang throughout, and she had 
now been allowed to go off Avith her mis- 
tress’s money and lesser trinkets, so that 
the world of Scotland Yard might be 
thrown more and more into the mire* of 


250 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


ignorance and darkness of doubt. To this 
view Gager was altogether opposed. He 
was inclined to think that Lord George 
had taken the diamonds at Carlisle with 
Lizzie’s connivance ; that he had restored 
them in London to her keeping, finding 
the suspicion against him too heavy to ad- 
mit of his dealing with them, and that 
now he had stolen them a second time, 
again with Lizzie’s connivance ; but in 
this latter point Gager did not pretend to 
the assurance of any conviction. 

But Gager at the present moment had 
achieved a triumph in the matter which 
he was not at all disposed to share with 
his elder officer. Perhaps, on the whole, 
more power is lost than gained by habits 
of secrecy. To be discreet is a fine thing, 
especially for a policeman ; but when dis- 
cretion is carried to such a length in the 
direction of self-confidence as to produce 
a belief that no aid is wanted for the 
achievement of great results, it will often 
militate against all achievement. Had 
Scotland Yard been less discreet and more 
confidential, the mystery might perhaps 
have been sooner unravelled. Gager at 
this very moment had reason to believe 
that a man whom he knew could — and 
would, if operated upon duly — communi- 
cate to him. Gager, the secret of the pres- 
ent whereabouts of Patience Crabstick ! 
That belief was a great possession, and 
much too important, as Gager thought, to 
be shared lightly with such a one as Mr. 
Bunfit — a thick-headed sort of man, in 
Gager’s opinion, although no doubt he 
had by means of industry been successful 
in some difficult cases. 

“ ’Is lordship ain’t stirred,” said Bunfit. 

“ How do you mean — stirred, Mr. 
Bunfit?” 

“Ain’t moved nowheres out of Lon- 
don.” 

“ What should he move out of London 
for? What could he get by cutting? 
There ain’t nothing so bad when any- 
thing’s up against one as letting on that 
one wants to bolt. He knows all that. 
He’ll stand his ground. He won’t bolt.” 

“I don’t suppose as he will, Gager. 
It’s a rum go, ain’t it? the rummiest as I 
ever see.” This remark had been made 
so often by Mr. Bunfit, that Gager had 
become almost weary of hearing it. 

“ Oh — rum ; rum be b . What’s 

the use of all that ? From what the gov- 
ernor told me this morning, there isn't a 


shadow of doubt where the diamonds 
are.” 

“ In Paris, ofcour.se,” said Bunfit. 

‘ ‘ They never went to Paris. They were 
taken from here to Hamburg in a com- 
mercial man’s kit — a fellow as travels in 
knives and scissors. Then they was re- 
cut. They say the cutting was the quick- 
est bit of work ever done by one man in 
Hamburg. And now they’re in New 
York. That’s what has come of the dia- 
monds.” 

“ Benjamin, in course,” said Bunfit, in 
a low whisper, just taking the pipe from 
between his lips. 

“AVell — yes. No doubt it was Benja- 
min. But how did Benjamin get ’em? ” 

“ Lord George — in course,” said Bun- 
fit. 

“ And how did he get ’em? ” 

“Well — that’s where it is; isn’t it?” 
Then there was a pause, during which 
Bunfit continued to smoke. “ As sure as 
your name’s Gager, he got ’em at Car- 
lisle.” 

“ And what took Smiler down to Car- 
lisle?” 

“Just to put a face on it,” said Bunfit. 

“ And who cut the door? ” 

“ Billy Cann did,” said Bunfit. 

“ And who forced the box? ” 

“ Them two did,” said Bunfit. 

“ And all to put a face on it? ” 

“Yes— just that. And an uncommon 
good face they did put on it between ’em 
— the best as I ever see.” 

“ All right,” said Gager. “ So far, so 
good. I don’t agree with you, Mr. Bun- 
fit ; because the thing, when it was done, 
wouldn’t be worth the money. Lord love 
you, what would all that have cost ? And 
what was to prevent the lady and Lord 
George together taking the diamonds to 
Benjamin and getting their price. It 
never does to be too clever, Mr. Bunfit. 
And when that was all done, why did the 
lady go and get herself robbed again ? No 
— I don’t say but what you’re a clevej 
man, in your way, Mr. Bunfit; but you’ve 
not got a hold of the thing here. Why 
was Smiler going about like a mad dog- 
only that he found himself took in? ” 

“ Maybe he expected something else in 
•the box — more than the necklace — as was 
to come to him,” suggested Bunfit. 

“ Gammon.” 

“ I don’t see why you say gammon. 
Gager. It ain’t polite.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAJMONDS. 


251 


“It is gammon — running away with 
ideas like them, just as if you was one of 
the public. When they two opened that 
box at Carlisle, which they did as certain 
as you sit there, they believed as the dia- 
monds were there. They were not there. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t think as they was,” said Bunfit. 

“Very well; where were they! Just 
walk up to it, Mr. Bunfit, making your 
ground good as you go. They two men 
cut the door, and took the box and opened 
it, and when they’d opened it, they didn’t 
get the swag. Where was the swag? ” 

“ Lord George,” said Bunfit again. 

“ Very well. Lord George. Like 
enough. But it comes to this. Benja- 
min, and they tAvo men of his, had laid 
themselves out for the robbery. J^ow', 
Mr. Bunfit, whether Lord George and 
Benjamin were together in that first affair, 
or whether they weren’t, I can’t see my 
Avay just at present, and I don’t know as 
you can see yours — not saying but what 
you’re as quick as most men, Mr. Bunfit. 
If he was — and I rayther think that’s 
about it — then he and Benjamin must 
have had a few words, and he must have 
got the jewels from the lady over night.” 

“ Of course he did ; and Smiler and 
Billy Cann knew as they weren’t there.” 

“ There you are, all back again, Mr. 
Bunfit, not making your ground good as 
you go. Smiler and Cann did their job 
according to order — and precious sore 
hearts they had when they’d got the box 
open. Those fellows at Carlisle— just like 
all the provincials — went to work open 
mouthed, and before the party left Car- 
lisle it was known that Lord George was 
suspected.” 

“ You can’t trust those fellows any way,” 
said Mr. Bunfit. 

“Well — what happens next? Lord 
George, he goes to Benjamin, but he isn’t 
goin’ to take the diamonds with him. 
He has had words with Benjamin or he 
has not. Any ways he isn’t goin’ to take 
the necklace with him on that morning. 
He hasn’t been goin’ to keep the diamonds 
about him, not since what was up at Car- 
lisle. So he gives the diamonds back to 
the lady.” 

“ And she had ’em all along? ” 

“ I don’t say it was so, but I can see 
my way upon that hy-pothesis.” 

“ There was something as she had to con- 
ceal. Gager. I’ve said that all through. I 
knew it in a moment when I see'd her faint.” 


“ She’s had a deal to conceal, I don’t 
doubt. Well, there they are — with her 
still — and the box is gone, and the peoj^le 
as is bringing the lawsuit, Mr. Camper- 
down and the rest of ’em, is off their tack. 
What’s she to do with ’em ? ” 

“ Take ’em to Benjamin,” said Bunfit 
Avith confidence. * 

“ That’s all A'ery well, Mr. Bunfit. But 
there’s a quarrel up already Avith Benja- 
min. Benjamin was to have had ’em be- 
fore. Benjamin has spent a goodish bit 
of money, and has been throAvn over 
rather. I dare say Benjamin Avas as bad 
as Smiler, or worse. No doubt Benjamin 
let on to Smiler, and thought as Smiler 
was too many for him. I dare say there 
was a few Avords betAveen him and Smiler. 
1 AA'ouldn’t wonder if Smiler didn’t threat- 
en to punch Benjamin’s head — which Avell 
he could do it — and if there wasn’t a few 
playful remarks betAveen ’em about penal 
servitude for life. You see, Mr. Bunfit, 
it couldn’t haAe been pleasant for any of 
’em.” 

“ They’d ’ve split,” said Bunfit. 

“But they didn’t, not downright. 
Well, there we are. The diamonds is 
Arith the lady. Lord George has done it 
all. Lord George and Lady Eustace — 
they’re keeping company, no doubt, after 
their own fashion. He’s a robbing of her, 
and she has to do pretty much as she’s 
bid. The diamonds is with the lady, and 
Lord George is pretty Avell afraid to look 
at ’em. After all that’s being done there 
isn’t much to wonder ac in that. Then 
comes the second robbery.” 

“ And Lord George planned that too? ’.’ 
asked Bunfit. 

“ I don’t pretend to say I knoAv, but 
just put it this AA'ay, Mr. Bunfit. Of 
course the thieves were let in by the wo- 
man Crabstick? ” 

“ Not a doubt.” 

“ Of course they was Smiler and Billy 
Cann?” 

“ I suppose they was.” 

“ She was always about the lady, a do- 
ing for her in everything. Say she goes 
to Benjamin and tells him as how her lady 
still has the necklace, and then he puts 
up the second robbery. Then you’d haA'e 
it all round.” 

“ And Lord George would have lost 
’em? It can’t be. Lord George and he 
are thick as thieves up to this day.” 

“ Very well. I don’t say anything 


252 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


against that. Lord George knows as she has 
’em ; indeed he’d given ’em back to her to 
keep. We’ve got as far as that, Mr. Bunfit.” 

“ 1 think she did ’ave ’em.” 

“ Very well. What does Lord George 
do then? He can’t make money of ’em. 
They’re too hot for his fingers, and so he 
finds when he thinks of taking ’em into 
the market. So he puts Benjamin up to 
the second robbery.” 

“Who’s drawing it fine, now. Gager; 
eh?” 

“ Mr. Bunfit, I’m not saying as I’ve got 
the truth be3'ond this, that Benjamin and 
his two men were clean done at Carlisle, 
that Lord George and his lady brought 
the jeAvels up to town between ’em, and 
that the party who didn’t get ’em at Car- 
lisle tried their hand again and did get 
’em in Hertford street.” In all of which 
the ingenious Gager would have been 
right if he could have kept his mind clear 
from the alluring conviction that a lord 
had been the chief of the thieves. 

“ AVe shall never make a case of it 
now,” said Bunfit despondently. 

“ I mean to try it on all the same. 
There’s Smiler about town as bold as 
brass, and dressed to the nines. He had 
the cheek to tell me as he was going down 
to the Newmarket Spring to look after a 
horse he’s got a share in.” 

“ I was talking to Billy only yester- 
day,” added Bunfit. “ I’ve got it on my 
mind that they didn’t treat Billy quite on 
the square. He didn’t let on anything 
about Benjamin ; but he told me out plain, 
as how he was very much disgusted. 
‘ Mr. Bunfit,’ said he, ‘ there’s that 
roguery about, that a plain man like me 
can’t touch it. There’s them as’d pick 
my eyes out while I was sleeping, and 
then swear it against my very self.’ Them 
were his words, and I knew as how Ben- 
jamin hadn’t been on the square with 
him.” 

“ You didn’t let on anything, Mr. Bun- 
fit?” 

“Well, I just reminded him as how 
there was five hundred pounds going 
a-begging from Mr. Camperdown.” 

“ And what did he say to that, Mr. 
Bunfit?” 

“ Well, he said a good deal. He’s a 
sharp little fellow, is Billy, as has read a 
deal. You’ve heard of ’Umpty Dumpty, 
Gager? ’Umpty Dumpty was a hegg.” 

“^11 right.” 


“As had a fall, and was smashed, and 
there’s a little poem about him.” 

“ I know.” 

“ Well ; Billy says to me : ‘ Mr. Camp- 
erdown don’t want no hinformation ; he 
wants the diamonds. Them diamonds is 
like ’Umpty Dumpty, Mr. Bunfit. All the 
king’s horses and all the king’s men 
couldn’t put ’Umpty Dumpty up again.” 

“ Billy was about right there,” said 
the younger officer, rising from his seat. 

Late on the afternoon of the same day, 
when London had already been given over 
to the gaslights, Mr. Gager, having 
dressed himself especially for the occasion 
of the friendly visit which he intended to 
make, sauntered into a small public-house 
at the corner of Meek street and Pine- 
apple Court, which locality, as all men 
well versed with London are aware, lies 
within one minute’s walk of the top of 
Gray’s Inn Lane. Gager, during his con- 
ference with his colleague Bunfit, had 
been dressed in plain black clothes ; but 
in spite of his plain clothes he looked ev- 
ery inch a policeman. There was a stiff- 
ness about his limbs, and, at the sam^ 
time, a sharpness in his eyes, which, in 
the conjunction with the locality in which 
he was placed, declared his profession be- 
yond the possibility of mistake. Nor, in 
that locality, would he have desired to be 
taken for anything else. But as he en- 
tered the “ Rising Sun ” in Meek street, 
there was nothing of the policeman about 
him. He might probably have been taken 
for a betting man, with whom the world 
had latterly gone well enough to enable 
him to maintain that sleek, easy, greasy 
appearance, which seems to be the beau 
ideal of a betting man’s personal ambi- 
tion. “Well, Mr. Howard,” said the 
lady at the bar, “ a sight of you is good 
for sore eyes.” 

“ Six penn’orth of brandy, — warm, if 
you please, my dear,” said the pseudo- 
Howard, as he strolled easily into an inner 
room, with which he seemed to be quite 
familiar. He seated himself in an old- 
fashioned wooden arm-chair, gazed up at 
the gas lamp, and stirred his liquor slow- 
ly. Occasionally he raised the glass to 
his lips, but he did not seem to be at all 
intent upon his drinking. When he en- 
tered the room, there had been a gentle- 
man and a lady there, whose festive mo- 
ments seemed to be disturbed by some 
slight disagreement; but Howard, as he 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


253 


gazed at the lamp, paid no attention to 
them whatever. They soon left the room, 
their quarrel and their drink finished to- 
gether, and others dropped in and out. 
Mr. Howard’s “warm ” must almost have 
become cold, so long did he sit there, gaz- 
ing at the gas lamps rather than attend- 
ing to Ills brandy and water. Not a word 
did he speak to any one for more than an 
hour, and not a sign did he show of impa- 
tience. At last he was alone ; but had 
not been so for above a minute when in 
stepped a jaunty little man, certainly not 
more than five feet high, about three or 
four and twenty years of age, dressed with 
great care, with his trousers sticking to 
his legs, with a French chimney-pot hat 
on his head, very much peeked fore and 
aft and closely turned up at the sides. He 
had a bright-colored silk-handkerchief 
round his neck, and a white shirt, of 
which the collar and wristbands were 
rather larger and longer than suited the 
small dimensions of the man. He wore a 
white greatcoat tight buttoned round his 
waist, but so arranged as to show the glo- 
ries of the colored handkerchief ; and in 
his hand he carried a diminutive cane 
with a little silver knob. He stepped airily 
into the room, and as he did so he ad- 
dressed our friend the policeman with 
much cordiality. “ My dear Mr. ’Oward,” 
he said, “ this is a pleasure. This is a 
pleasure. This is a pleaure.” 

“ What is it to be? ” asked Gager. 

“ Well ; ay, what? Shall I say a little 
port wine negus, with the nutmeg in it 
rayther strong?” This suggestion he 
made to a young lady from the bar, who 
had followed him into the room. The ne- 
gus was brought and paid for by Gager, 
who then requested that they might be 
left there undisturbed for five minutes. 
The young lady promised to do her best, 
and then closed the door. “ And now, 
Mr. ’Oward, what can I do for you? ” 
said Mr. Cann, the burglar. 

Gager, before he answered, took a pipe- 
case out of his pocket, and lit the pipe. 

Will you smoke, Billy? ” said he. 

“ Well — no, I don’t know that I will 
smoke. A very little tobacco goes a long 
way with me, Mr. ’Oward. One cigar be- 
fore I turn in ; that’s about the outside of 
it. You see, Mr. ’Oward, pleasures 
should never be made necessities, when 
the circumstances of a gentleman’s life 
may perhaps require that they shall be 


abandoned for prolonged periods. In your 
line of life, Mr. ’Oward, which has its ob- 
jections, smoking may be pretty well a 
certainty.” Mr. Cann, as he made these 
remarks, skipped about the room, and 
gave point to his argument by touching 
Mr. Howard’s waistcoat with the end of 
his cane. 

“ And now, Billy, how about the young 
woman? ” 

“ I haven’t set eyes on her these six 
weeks, Mr. ’Oward. I never see her but 
once in my life, Mr. ’Oward ; or, maybe, 
twice, for one’s memory is deceitful ; and 
I don’t know that 1 ever wish to see her 
again. She ain’t one of my sort, Mr. 
’Oward. I likes ’em soft, and sweet, and 
coming. This one, she has her good p’ints 
about her, as clean a foot and ankle as I’d 
wish to see ; but, laws, what a nose, Mr. 
’Oward. And then for manner ; slie’s no 
more manner than a stable dog.” 

“ She’s in London, Billy?” 

“ How am I to know, Mr. ’Oward? ” 
“What’s the good, then, of your com- 
ing here?” asked Gager, with no little 
severity in his voice. 

“ I don’t know as it is good. I ’aven’t 
said nothing about any good, Mr. ’Oward. 
What you wants to find is them dia- 
monds? ” 

“ Of course I do.” 

“ Well ; you won’t find ’em. I knows 
nothing about ’em, in course, except just 
what I’m told. You know my line of 
life, Mr. ’Oward?” 

“ Not a doubt about it.” 

“ And I know yours. I’m in the way of 
hearing about these things, and for the 
matter of that, so are you too. It may be, 
my ears are the longer. I ’ave ’card. 
You don’t expect me to tell you more than 
just that. I ’ave ’eard. It was a i^retty 
thing, wasn’t it ? But I wasn’t in it my- 
self, more’s the pity. You can’t expect 
fairer than that, Mr. ’Oward? ” 

“ And what have you heard? ” 

“Them diamonds is gone where -none 
of you can get at ’em. That five hundred 
pounds as the lawyers ’ave offered is just 
nowhere. If you want information. Mr. 
’Oward, you should say information.” 

“ And you could give it ; eh, Billy? ” 
“No — no — .” He uttered these two 
negatives in a low voice, and with much 
deliberation. “I couldn’t give it. A 
man can’t give what he hasn’t got, but 
nerhaps I could get it.” 


254 


THE EUSTACE DIAMO^DH. 


“ Wliat an ass you are, Billy. Don’t 
you know that I know all about it? ” 

“What an ass you are, Mr. '’0 ward. 
Don’t I know that you don’t know ; or 
you wouldn’t come to me. You guess. 
You’re always a-guessing. But guessing 
ain’t knowing. You don’t know; nor 
yet don’t I. What is it to be, if I find 
out where that young woman is? ” 

“ A tenner, Billy.” 

“ Five quid now, and five when you’ve 
seen her?” 

“ All right, Billy.” 

“ She’s a-going to be married to Smiler 
next Sunday as ever is down at Ramsgate ; 
and at Ramsgate she is now. You’ll find 
her, Mr. ’Oward, if you’ll keep your 
e^’es open, somewhere about the ‘ Fiddle 
with One String.’ ” 

This information was so far recognized 
by Mr. Ploward as correct, that he paid 
Mr. Cann five sovereigns down for it at 
once. 


CHAPTER LVTH. 

“ THE FIDDLE WITH ONE STRING.” 

Mr. Gager reached Ramsgate by the 
earliest train on the following morning, 
and was not long in finding out the ” Fid- 
dle with One String.” The “ Fiddle with 
OneString” wasa public-house, very hum- 
ble in appearance, in the outskirts of 
the town, on the road leading to Pegwell 
Bay. On this occasion Mr. Gager was 
dressed in his ordinary plain clothes, and 
though the policeman’s calling might not 
be so manifestly declared by his appear- 
ance at Ramsgate as it was in Scotland 
Yard, still, let a hint in that direction 
have ever been given, and the ordinary 
citizens of Ramsgate would at once be 
convinced that the man was what he was. 
Gager had doubtless considered all the 
circumstances of his day’s work carefully, 
and had determined that success would 
more probably attend him with this than 
with any other line of action. He walked 
at once into the house, and asked whether 
a young woman was not lodging there. 
, The man of the house was behind the bar, 
with his wife, and to him Gager whis- 
pered a few words. The man stood dumb 
for a moment, and then his wife spoke. 
“ What’s up now,” said she. “ There’s 
no young women here. ^Ve don’t have no 
young women.” Then the man whis- 
pered a word to his wife, during which 


Gager stood among the customers before 
the bar with an easy, unembarrassed air. 

“Well, what’s the odds?” said the 
wife. “ There ain’t anything wrong with 
us.” 

“Never thought there was, ma’am,” 
said Gager. “ And there’s nothing 
wrong as I know of with the young wom- 
an.” Then the husband and wife con- 
sulted together, and Mr. Gager was asked 
to take a seat in a little parlor, while the 
woman ran up stairs for half an instant. 
Gager looked about him quickly, and 
took in at a glance the system of the con- 
struction of the “Fiddle with One 
String.” He did sit down in the little 
parlor, with the door open, and remained 
there for perhaps a couple of minutes. 
Then he went to the front door, and 
glanced up at the roof. “ It’s all right,” 
said the keeper of the house, following 
him. “She ain’t a-going to get away. 
She ain’t just very well, and she’s a-lying 
down.” 

“ You tell her, with my regards,” said 
Gager, “ that she needn’t be a bit the 
worse because of me.” The man looked 
at him suspiciously. “ You tell her what 
I say. And tell her, too, the quicker the 
better She has a gentleman a-looking 
after her, I daresay. Perhaps I‘d better 
be off before he comes.” The message 
was taken up to the lady, and Gager 
again seated himself in the little parlor. 

We are often told that all is fair in love 
and war, and perhaps the operation on 
which Mr. Gager was now intent may be 
regarded as warlike. But he now took 
advantage of a certain softness in the 
character of the lady whom he wished to 
meet, which hardly seems to be justifiable 
even in a policeman. When Lizzie’s tall 
footman had been in trouble about the 
necklace, a photograph had been taken 
from him which had not been restored to 
him. This was a portrait of Patience 
Crabstick, which she, poor girl, in a ten- 
der moment, had given to him, who, had 
not things gone roughly with them, was 
to have been her lover. The little picture 
had fallen into Gager’s hands, and he 
now pulled it from his pocket. He him- 
self had never visited the house in Hert- 
ford street till after the second robbery, 
and, in the flesh, had not as yet seen Miss 
Crabstick ; but he had studied her face 
carefully, expecting, or at any rate hop- 
ing that he might some day enjoy the 


TPIE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


255 


pleasure of personal acquaintance. That 
pleasure was now about to come to him, 
and he prepared himself for it by making 
himself intimate with the lines of the 
lady’s face as the sun had portrayed them. 
There was even yet some delay, and Mr. 
Gager more than once testified uneasiness. 
“ She ain’t a-going to get away,” said 
tlie mistress of the house, “ but a lady as 
is going to see a gentleman can’t jump 
into her things as a man does.” Gager 
intimate(^his acquiescence in all this, and 
again waited, 

“ The sooner she comes, the less trou- 
ble for her,” said Gager to the woman. 
“If you’ll only make her believe that.” 
At last, when he had been somewhat over 
an hour in the house, he was asked to 
walk up stairs, and then, in a little sit- 
ting-room over the bar, he had the oppor- 
tunity, so much desired, of making per- 
sonal acquaintance with Patience Crab- 
stick. 

It may be imagined that the poor wait- 
ing-woman had not been in a happy state 
of mind since she had been told that a 
gentleman was waiting to see her down- 
stairs, who had declared himself to be a 
policeman immediately on entering the 
shop. To escape was of course her first 
idea, but she was soon made to under- 
stand that this was impracticable. In 
the first place there was but one staircase, 
at the bottom of w'hich was the open door 
of the room in which the policeman was 
sitting ; and then, the woman of the 
house was very firm in declaring that she 
would connive at nothing which might 
cost her and her husband their license. 
“ You’ve got to face it,” said the woman. 
“ I suppose they can’t make me get out 
of bed unless I pleases,” said Patience 
firmly. But she knew that even that re- 
source would fail her, and that a police- 
man, when aggravated, can take upon 
him all the duties of a lady’s maid. She 
had to face it, and she did face it. “ I’ve 
just got to have a few words with you, my 
dear,” said Gager. 

“ I suppose, then, we’d better be alone,” 
said Patience ; whereupon the woman of 
the house discreetly left the room. 

The interview was so long that the 
reader would be fatigued were he asked 
to study a record of all that was said on 
the occasion. The gentleman and lady 
were closeted together for more than an 
hour, and so amicablv was the conversa- 


tion carried on that when the time was 
half over Gager stepped downstairs and 
interested himself in procuring Miss 
Crabstick’s breakfast. He even conde- 
scended himself to pick a few shrimps and 
drink a glass of beer in her company. A 
great deal was said, and something was 
even settled, as may be learned from a 
few concluding words of that very memor- 
able conversation. “ Just don’t you say 
anything about it, my dear, but leave 
word for him that you’ve gone up to town 
on business.” ‘ 

“ Lord love you, Mr. Gager, he’ll know 
all about it.” 

“ Let him know. Of course he’ll know 
if he comes down. It’s my belief he’ll 
never show himself at Ramsgate again.” 

“But, Mr. Gager ” 

“ Well, my dear.” 

“ You aren’t a perjuring of yourself? ” 

“ What; about making you my wife? 
That I ain’t. I’m upright and always 
was. There’s no mistake about me when 
you’ve got my word. As soon as this 
work is off my mind you shall be Mrs. Ga- 
ger, my dear. And you’ll be all right. 
You’ve been took in, that’s what you 
have.” 

“That I have, Mr. Gager,’* said Pa- 
tience, wiping her eyes. 

“ You’ve been took in and you must be 
forgiven.” 

“ I didn’t get — not nothing out of the 
necklace ; and as for the other things, 
they’ve frighted me so that I let ’em all 
go for just what I tell you. And as for 
Mr. Smiler, I never didn’t care for him ; 
that I didn’t. He ain’t the man to touch 
my heart ; not at all ; and it was not like- 
ly either. A plain fellow, very, Mr. Ga- 
''ger.” 

“He’ll be plainer before long, my 
dear.” 

“ But I’ve been that worrited among 
’em, Mr. Gager, since first they made 
their wicked prepositions, that I’ve been 
jest — I don’t know how I’ve been. And 
though my lady was not a lady as any 
girl could like, and did deserve to have 
her things took if anybody’s things ever 
should be took, still Mr. Gager, I knows 
I did wrong. I do know it, and I’m a-re- 
penting of it in sackcloth and ashes ; so I 
am. But you’ll be as good as 3’’our word, 
Mr. Gager?” 

It must be acknowledged that I\Ir. Ga- 
ger had bidden high for success, and had 


256 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


allowed himself to be carried away by his 
zeal almost to the verge of imprudence. 
It was essential to him that he should 
take Patience Crabstick back with him 
to London, and that he should take her as 
as witness and not as a criminal. Mr. 
Benjamin was the game at which he was 
flying — Mr. Benjamin, and if possible. 
Lord George — and he conceived that his 
net might be big enough to hold Smiler as 
well as the other two greater fishes, if he 
could induce Patience Crabstick and Billy 
Cann to cooperate with him cordially in 
his fishing. 

But his mind was still disturbed on one 
point. Let him press his beloved Patience 
as closely as he might with questions, 
there was one point on which he could 
not get from her what he believed to be 
the truth. She persisted that Lord 
George de Bruce Carruthers had had no 
hand in either robbery, and Gager had so 
firmly committed himself to a belief on 
this matter, that he could not throw the 
idea away from him, even on the testimo- 
ny of Patience Crabstick. 

On that evening he returned trium- 
phant to Scotland Yard with Patience 
Crabstick under his wing ; and that lady 
was housed there with every comfort she 
could desire, except that of personal lib- 
erty. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

MR. GOWRAN UP IN LONDON. 

In the meantime Mrs. Hittaway was 
diligently spreading a report that Lizzie 
Eustace either was engaged to marry her 
cousin Frank, or ought to be so engaged. 
This she did, no doubt, with the sole ob- 
ject of saving her brother ; but she did it 
with a zeal that dealt as freely with 
Frank’s name as with Lizzie’s. They, 
with all their friends, were her enemies, 
and she was quite sure that they were, al- 
together, a wicked, degraded set of peo- 
ple. Of Lord George and Mrs. Carbun- 
cle, of Miss Roanoke and Sir Griffin Tew- 
ett she believed all manner of evil. She 
had theories of her own about the jewels, 
stories — probably of her own manufacture 
in part, although no doubt she believed 
them to be true — as to the manner of liv- 
ing at Portray, little histories of Lizzie’s 
debts, and the great fact of the scene 
which Mr. Gowran had seen with his own 
eyes. Lizzie Eustace was an abomination 


to her, and this abominable woman her 
brother was again in danger of marrying ! 
She was very loud in her denunciations, 
and took care that they should reach even 
Lady Linlithgow, so that poor Lucy Mor- 
ris might know of what sort was the lover 
in whom she trusted. Andy Gowran had 
been sent for to town, and was on his jour- 
ney while Mr. Gager was engaged at 
Ramsgate. It was at present the great 
object of Mrs. Hittaway’s life to induce 
her brother to see Mr. Gowran ^before he 
kept his appointment with Lady Eus- 
tace. 

Poor Lucy received the wound which 
was intended for her. The enemy’s weap- 
ons had repeatedly struck her, but hither- 
to they had alighted on the strong shield 
of her faith. But let a shield be never so 
strong, it may at last be battered out of 
all form and service. On Lucy’s shield 
there had been much of such batterings, 
and the blows which had come from him 
in whom she most trusted had not been 
the lightest. She had not seen him for 
months, and his letters were short, unsat- 
isfactory, and rare. She had declared to 
herself and to her friend Lady Fawn, that 
no concurrence of circumstances, no ab- 
sence, however long, no rumors that 
might reach her ears, would make her 
doubt the man she loved. She was still 
steadfast in the same resolution ; but in 
spite of her resolution her heart began to 
fail her. She became weary, unhappy, 
and ill at ease, and though sh^ would 
never acknowledge to herself that she 
doubted, she did doubt. 

“So, after all, 3^our Mr. Grej^stock is 
to marry my niece, Lizzie Grej^stock.” 
This good-natured speech was made one 
morning to poor Lucy by her present pat- 
roness, Lady Linlithgow. 

“ I rather thinknot,” said Lucy, pluck- 
ing up her spirits and smiling as she 
spoke. 

“Everj’body saj^s so. As for Lizzie 
she has become quite a heroine. What 
with her necklace, and her two robberies, 
and her hunting, and her various lovers — 
two lords and a member of Parliament, 
my dear — there is nothing to equal her. 
Lady Glencora Palliser has been calling 
on her. She took care to let me know 
that. And I’m told that she certainly is 
engaged to her cousin.” 

“ According to j^our own showing, 
'■ Lady Linlithgow, she has got two other 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


257 


lovers. Couldn’t you oblige me by let- 
ting her maiTy one of the lords? ” 

“ I’m afraid, my dear, that Mr. Grej*- 
stock is to be the chosen one.” Then 
after a pause the old woman became seri- 
ous, “ What is the use. Miss Morris, of 
not looking the truth in the face? Mr, 
Grej’stock is neglecting you.” 

“ He is not neglecting me. You won’t 
let him come to see me.” 

“ Certainly not ; but if he were not neg- 
lecting you, you would not be here. 
And there he is with Lizzie Eustace every 
day of his life. He can’t afford to marry 
30U, and he can afford to marry her. It’s 
a deal detter that you should look it all in 
the face and know what it must all come 
to.” 

“ I shall just wait, and never believe a 
word till he speaks it.” 

“ You hardly know what men are, my 
dear.” 

“ Very likely not. Lady Linlithgow. 
It may be that I shall have to pay dear 
for learning. Of course I may be mis- 
taken as well as another, only I don’t be- 
lieve I am mistaken.” 

When this little scene took place, only 
a month remained of the time for which 
Lucy’s services were engaged to Lady 
Linlithgow, and no definite arrangement 
had been made as to her future residence. 
Lady Fawn was prepared to give her a 
home, and to Lady Fawn, as it seemed, 
she must go. Lady Linlithgow had de- 
clared lierself unwilling to continue the 
existing arrangement because, as she 
said, it did not suit her that her compan- 
ion should be engaged to marry her late 
sister’s nephew. Not a word had been 
said about the deanery for the last month 
or two, and Lucy, though her hopes in 
that direction had once been good, was 
far too high spirited to make any sugges- 
tion herself as to her reception by her 
lover’s family. In the ordinary course of 
things she would have to look out for an- 
other situation, like any other governess 
in want of a place ; but she could do this 
only by consulting Lady Fawn ; and Lady 
Fawn when consulted would always set- 
tle the whole matter by simply bidding 
her young friend to come to Fawn Court. 

There must be some end of her living at 
Fawn Court. So much Lucy told her- 
self over and over again. It could be but 
a temporary measure. If— if it was to be 
her fate to be taken away from Fawn 
17 


Court a happy, glorious, triumphant bride, 
then the additional obligation put upon 
her by her dear friends would not be more 
than she could bear. But to go to Fawn 
Court, and, by degrees, to have it ac 
knowledged that another place must be 
found for her, would be very bad. She 
would infinitely prefer any intermediate 
hardship. How, then, should she know? 
As soon as she was able to escape from the 
countess, she went up to her own room, 
and wrote the following letter. She stud- 
ied the words with great care as she wrote 
them — sitting and thinking before she al- 
lowed her pen to run on the paper. 

“ My Dear Frank : It is a long time 
since we met — is it not? 1 do not write 
this as a reproach, but because my friends 
tell me that I should not continue to think 
myself engaged to you. They say that, 
situated as you are, you cannot afford to 
marry a penniless girl, and that 1 ought 
not to wish you to sacrifice yourself. 1 do 
understand enough of your afiairs to know 
that an imprudent marriage may ruin 
you, and I certainly do not wish to be the 
cause of injury to you. All I ask is that 
you should tell me the truth. It Ls not 
that I am impatient ; but that I must de- 
cide what to do with myself when I leave 
Lady Linlithgow. Your most affection- 
ate friend, Lucy Morris. 

“ March 2, 1^-. ” 

She read this letter over and over again, 
thinking of all that it said, and of all that 
it omitted to say. She was at first half 
disposed to make protestations of forgive- 
ness, to assure him that not even within 
her own heart would she reproach him, 
should he feel himself bound to retract 
the promise he had made her. She 
longed to break out into love, but so to 
express her love that her lover should 
know that it was strong enough even to 
sacrifice itself for his sake. But though 
her heart longed to speak freely, her 
judgment told her that it would be bet- 
ter that she should be reticent and tran- 
quil in her language. Any warmth on 
her part would be in itself a reproach to 
him. If she really wished to assist him 
in extricating himself from a difficulty 
into which he had fallen in her behalf, 
she would best do so by offering him his 
freedom in the fewest and plainast words 
which she could select. 

But even when the letter was written 


2o8 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


she doubted as to the wisdom of sending 
it. She kept it that she might sleep upon 
it. She did sleep upon it, and when the 
morning came she would not send it. 
Had not absolute faith in her lover been 
the rock on which she had declared to 
herself that she would build the house of 
her future hopes ? Had not she protested 
again and again that no caution from 
others should induce her to waver in her 
belief? Was it not her great doctrine to 
trust, to trust implicitly, even though all 
should be lost if her trust should be mis- 
placed? And was it well that she should 
depart from all this, merely because it 
might be convenient for her to make 
arrangements as to the coming months? 
If it were to be her fate to be rejected, 
thrown over, and deceived, of what use to 
her could be any future arrangements. 
All to her would be ruin, and it would 
matter to her nothing whither she should 
be taken. And then, why should she lie 
to him as she would lie in sending such a 
letter ? If he did throw her over he would 
be a traitor, and her heart would be full 
of reproaches. Whatever might be his 
future lot in life, he owed it to her to 
share it wdth her, and if he evaded his 
debt he would be a traitor and a mis- 
creant. She would never tell him so. 
She would be far too proud to condescend 
to spoken or written reproaches. But 
she would know that it would be so, and 
why should she lie to him by saying that 
it would not be so ? Thinking of all this, 
when the morning came, she left the let- 
ter lying within her desk. 

Lord Fawn was to call upon Lady Eus- 
' tace on the Saturday, and on Friday after- 
noon Mr. xVndrew Gowran was in Mrs. 
Hittaway’s back parlor in Warwick 
Square. After many ejBforts, and with 
much persuasion, the brother had agreed 
to see his sister’s great witness. Lord 
Fawn had felt that he would lower him- 
self by any intercourse with such a one as 
Andy Gowran in regard to the conduct of 
the woman whom he had proposed to 
make his wife, and had endeavored to 
avoid the meeting. He had been angry, 
piteous, haughty, and sullen by turns ; 
but Mrs. Hittaway had overcome him by 
dogged perseverance ; and poor Lord 
Fawn had at last consented. He was to 
come to W arwick Square as soon as the 
House was up on Friday evening, and 
dine there. Before dinner he was to be 


introduced to Mr. Gowran. Andy arrived 
at the house at half-past five, and after 
some conversation with jNIrs. Hittaway, 
was left there all alone to await the com- 
ing of Lord Fawn. He was in appear- 
ance and manners very different from the 
Andy Gowran familiarly known among 
the braes and crofts of Portray. He had 
a heavy stiff hat, which he carried in his 
hand. He wore a black swallow-tail coat 
and black trousers, and a heavy red waist- 
coat buttoned up nearly to his throat, 
round which was lightly tied a dingy 
black silk handkerchief. At Portray no 
man was more voluble, no man more self- 
confident, no man more equal to his daily 
occupations than Andy Gowran ; but the 
unaccustomed clothes, and the journey to 
London, and the town houses overcame 
him, and for a while almost silenced him. 
Mrs, Hittaway found him silent, cautious, 
and timid. Not knowing what to do with 
him, fearing to ask him to go and eat in 
the kitchen, and not liking to have meat 
and unlimited drink brought for him into 
the parlor, she directed the servant to 
supply him with a glass of sherry and a 
couple of biscuits. He had come an hour 
before the time named, and there, with 
nothing to cheer him beyond these slight 
creature comforts, he was left to wait all 
alone till Lord Fawn should be ready to 
see him. V , . -v 

Andy had seen lords before. Lords are 
not rarer in Ayrshire than in other Scotch 
counties ; and then, had not Lord George 
de Bruce Carruthers been staying at Por- 
tray half the winter? But Lord George 
was not to Andy a real lord, and then a 
lord down in his own county was so much 
less to him than a lord up in London. 
And this lord was a lord of Parliament, 
and a government lord, and might proba- 
bly have the power of hanging such a one 
as Andy Gowran were he to commit per- 
jury, or say anything which the lord 
might choose to call peijury. What it 
was that Lord Fawn wished him to say, 
he could not make himself sure. That 
the lord’s sister wished him to prove Lady 
Eustace to be all that was bad, he knew 
very well. But he thought that he was 
able to perceive that the brother and sis- 
ter were not at one, and more than once 
^uring his journey up to London he had 
almost made up his mind that he would 
turn tail and go back to Portray. No 
doubt there was enmity between him and 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


his mistress ; but then his mistress did 
not attempt to hurt him even though he 
had insulted her grossly ; and were she to 
tell him to leave her service, it would be 
from Mr. John Eustace, and not from 
^Irs. Hittaway, that he must look for the 
continuation of his employment. Never- 
theless he had taken Mrs. Hittaway’s 
money and there he was. 

At half-past seven Lord Fawn was 
brought into the room by his sister, and 
Andy Gowran, rising from his chair, 
three times ducked his head. “ Mr. Gow- 
ran,” said ]Mrs. Hittaway, “my brother 
is desirous that you should tell him exact- 
ly what you have seen of Lady Eustace’s 
conduct down at Portray. You may speak 
quite freely, and I know you will speak 
truly.” Andy again ducked his head. 
“ Frederic,” continued the lady, “ I am 
sure that you may implicitly believe all 
that Mr. Gowran will say to you.” Then 
^Irs. Hittaway left the room, as her 
brother had expressly stipulated that she 
should do. 

Lord Fawn was quite at a loss how to 
begin, and Andy was by no means pre- 
pared to help him. “ If I am rightly in- 
formed,” said the lord, “you have been 
for many years employed on the Portray 
property? ” 

“ A’ my life, so please your lairdship.” 

“Just so ; just so. And of course inter- 
ested in the welfare of the Eustace family?” 

“ Nae doobt, my laird, nae doobt ; vera 
interasted indeed.” 

“And being an honest man, have felt 
sorrow that the Portray property should 
— should — should — that anything bad 
should happen to it.” Andy nodded his 
head, and Lord Fawn perceived that he 
was nowhere near the beginning of his 
matter. “ Lady Eustace is at present 
your mistress? ” 

“Just in a fawshion, my laird, as a 
mon may say. That is she is, and she is 
nae. There’s a mony things at Portray 
as ha’ to be lookit after.” 

“ She pays you your wages? ” said Lord 
Fawn shortly. 

“ Eh — wages ! Yes, my- laird, she does 
a’ that.” 

“Then she’s your mistress.” Andy 
again nodded his head, and Lord Fawn 
again struggled to find some way in which 
he might approach the subject. “ Her 
cousin, Mr. Greystock, has been staying 
at Portray lately ? ” 


i:j9 

“More coothie than coosinly,” said 
Andy, winking his eye. 

It was dreadful to Lord Fawn that the 
man should wink liis eye at him. He did 
not quite understand what Andy had last 
said, but he did understand that some ac- 
cusation as to indecent familiarity with 
her cousin was intended to be brought by 
this Scotch steward against the woman to 
whom he had engaged himself. Every 
feeling of his nature revolted against the 
task before him, and he found that on 
trial it became absolutely impracticable. 
He could not bring himself to inquire mi- 
nutely as to poor Lizzie's flirting down 
among the rocks. He was weak and fool- 
ish, and in many respects ignorant, but 
he was a gentleman. As he got nearer to 
the point which it had been intended that 
he should reach, the more he hated Andy 
Gowran, and the more he hated himself 
for having submitted to such contact. He 
paused a moment and then he declared 
that the conversation was at an end. “ I 
think that will do, Mr. Gowran,” he 
said. “ I don’t know that you can tell 
me anything I want .to hear. I think you 
had better go back to Scotland.” So say- 
ing, he left Andy alone and stalked up to 
the drawing-room. When he entered it 
both Mr. Hittaway and his sister were 
there. “ Clara,” he said very sternly, 
“ you had better send some one to dismiss 
that man. I shall not speak to him 
again.” 

Lord Fawn did not speak to Andy Gow- 
ran again, but Mrs. Hittaway did. After 
a faint and futile endeavor made by her to 
ascertain what had taken place in the par- 
lor down stairs, she descended and found 
Andy seated in his chair, still holding his 
hat in his hand, as stiff as a wax figure. 
He had been afraid of the lord, but as soon 
as the lord had left him he was very angry 
with the lord. He had been brought up 
all that way to tell his story to the lord, 
and the lord had gone away without heal- 
ing a word of it, had gone away and had 
absolutely insulted him, had asked him 
who paid him his wages, and had then 
told him that Lady Eustace was his mis- 
tress. Andy Gowran felt strongly that 
this was not that kind of confidential 
usage which he had had a right to expect. 
And after his experience of the last hour 
and a half, he did not at all relish his re- 
newed solitude in that room. “A drap 
of puir thin liquor — poored out too — in a 


260 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


weeny glass nae deeper than an egg shell, 
and twa cookies ; that’s what she ca’ed 
rafrashment ! ” It was thus that Andy 
afterwards spoke to his .wife of the hospi- 
talities offered to him in Warwick Square, 
regarding which his anger was especially 
hot, in that he had been treated like a 
child or a common laborer, instead of hav- 
ing the decanter left with him to be used 
at his own discretion. When, therefore, 
Mrs. Ilittaway returned to him, the awe 
with which new circumstances and the 
lord had filled him was fast vanishing and 
giving place to that stubborn indignation 
against people in general, which was his 
normal condition. “ I suppose I’m jist to 
gang bock again to Portrae, Mrs. Heet- 
away, and that’ll be a’ you’ll want o’ 
me ? ” This he said the moment the lady 
entered the room. 

But Mrs. Hittaway did not want to lose 
his services quite so soon. She expressed 
regret that her brother should have found 
himself unable to discuss a subject that 
was naturally so very distasteful to him, 
and begged Mr. Gowran to come to her 
again the next morning. “What I saw 
wi’ my ain twa e’es, Mrs. Heetaway, I 
saw, and nane the less because his laird- 
ship may nae find it jist tasteful, as your 
leddyship was saying. There were them 
twa a colloguing, and a seetting ilk in 
itJier's laps a’ o’er, and a keessing — yes, 
my leddy, a keessing as females, not to 
say males, ought nae to keess unless they 
be mon and wife — and then not amang the 
rocks, my leddy ; and if his lairdship does 
nae care to hear tell o’ it, and finds it nae 
tasteful, as your leddyship was saying, he 
should nae ha’ sent for Andy Gowran a’ 
the way from Portray, jist to tell him 
what he wanna hear, now I’m come to 
teirt to him ! ” 

All this was said with so much unction 
that even Mrs. Hittaway hei*self found it 
to be not “tasteful.” She shrunk and 
shivered under Mr. Gowran ’s eloquence, 
and almost repented of her zeal. But 
women, perhaps, feel less repugnance than 
men do at using ignoble assistance in the 
achievement of good purposes. Though 
Mrs. Hittaway shrunk and shivered under 
the strong action with which Mr. Gowran 
garnished his' strong words, still she was 
sure of the excellence of her purpose ; and 
believing that useful aid might still be ob- 
tained from Andy Gowran, and perhaps 
prudently anxious to get value in return 


for the cost of the journey up from Ayr- 
shire, she made the man promise to return 
to her on the following morning. 


CHAPTER LX. 

LET IT BE AS THOUGH IT HAD NEVER BEEN. 

Between her son, and her married 
daughter, and Lucy Morris, poor Lady 
Fawn’s life had become a burthen to her. 
Everything was astray, and there was no 
happiness or tranquillity at Fawn Court 
Of all simply human creeds the strongest 
existing creed for the present in the minds 
of the Fawn ladies, was that which had 
reference to the general iniquity of Lizzie 
Eustace. She had been the cause of all 
these sorrows, and she was hated so much 
the more because she had not been proved 
to be iniquitous before all .the world. 
There had been a time when it seemed to 
be admitted that she was so wicked in 
keeping the diamonds in opposition to the 
continued demands made for them by Mr. 
Camperdown, that all people would be 
justified in dropping her, and Lord Fawn 
among the number. But since the two 
robberies public opinion had veered round 
three or four points in Lizzie’s favor, and 
people were beginning to say that she had 
been ill-used. Then had come Mrs. Hit- 
taway’s evidence as to Lizzie’s wicked do- 
ings down in Scotland — the wicked doings 
which Andy Gowran had described with 
a vehemence so terribly moral — and that 
which had been at first, as it were, added 
to the diamonds, as a supplementary 
weight thrown into the scale so that Liz- 
zie’s iniquities might bring her absolutely 
to the ground, had gradually assumed the 
position of being the first charge against 
her. Lady Fawn had felt no aversion to 
discussing the diamonds. When Lizzie 
was called a “ thief,” and a “ robber,” 
and a “ swindler,” by one or another of 
the ladies of the family — who, in using 
those strong terms, whispered the words 
as ladies are wont to do when they desire 
to lessen the impropriety of the strength 
of their language by the gentleness of the 
tone in which the words are spoken — 
when Lizzie was thus described in Lady 
Fawn’s hearing in her own house, she had 
felt no repugnance to it. It was well that 
the fact should be known, so that every- 
body might be aware that her son was do- 
ing right in refusing to marry so wicked 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


261 


a lady. But when the other thing was 
added to it ; when the story was told of 
what Mr. Gowran had seen among the 
rocks, and when gradually that became 
the sjDecial crime which was to justify her 
son in dropping the lady’s acquaintance, 
then Lady Fawn became very unhappy, 
and found the subject to be, as Mrs. Hit- 
taway had described it, very distasteful. 

And this trouble hit Lucy jNlorris as 
hard as it did Lord Fawn. If Lizzie Eus- 
tace was unfit to marry Lord Fawn be- 
cause of these things, then was Frank 
Greystock not only unfit to marry Lucy, 
but most unlikely to do so, whether fit or 
unfit. For a week or two Lady Fawn had 
allowed herself to share Lucy’s joy, and 
to believe that Mr. Greystock would prove 
himself true to the girl whose heart he 
had made all his own ; but she had soon 
learned to distrust the young member of 
Parliament who was always behaving in- 
solently to her son, who spent his holi- 
days down with Lizzie Eustace, who never 
visited and rarely wrote to the girl he had 
promised to maja-y, and as to whom all 
the world agreed in saying that he was far 
too much in debt to marry any woman 
who had not means to help him. It was 
all sorrow and vexation together ; and yet 
w’hen her married daughter would press 
the subject upon her, and demand her co- 
operation, she had no power of escaping. 
“ Mamma,” Mrs. Hittaway had said, 
“ Lady Glencora Palliser has been with 
her, and everybody is taking her up, and 
if her conduct down in Scotland isn’t 
proved, Frederic will be made to marry 
her.” “But what can I do, my dear? ” 
Lady Fawn had asked, almost in tears. 
“ Insist that Frederic shall know the 
whole truth,” replied ^Mrs. Hittaway with 
energy. “ Of course it is very disagree- 
able. Nobody can feel it more than I do. 
It is horrible to have to talk about such 
things, and to think of them.” “ Indeed 
it is, Clara, very horrible.” “But any- 
thing, mamma, is better than that Fred- 
eric should be allowed to marry such a 
woman as that. It must be proved to 
him — how unfit she is to be his wife.” 
With the view of carrying out this inten- 
tion, Mrs. Hittaway had, as we have seen, 
received Andy Gowran at her own house ; 
and with the same view she took Andy 
Gowran the following morning down to 
Richmond. 

Mrs. Hittaway, and her mother, and 


Andy were closeted together for half an 
hour, and Lady Fawn suffered grievously. 
Lord Fawn had found that he couldn’t 
hear the story, and he had not heard it. 
He had been strong enough to escape, and 
had, upon the whole, got the best of it in 
the slight skirmish which had taken place 
between him and the Scotchman, but poor 
old Lady Fawn could not escape. Andy 
was allowed to be eloquent, and the whole 
story was told to her, though she would 
almost sooner have been flogged at a cart’s 
tail than have heard it. Then “ rafrash- 
ments” were administered to Andy of a 
nature which made him prefer Fawn 
Court to Warwick Square, and he was 
told that he might go back to Portray as 
soon as he pleased. 

When he was gone, Mrs. Hittaway 
opened her mind to her mother altogether. 
“ The truth is, mamma, that Frederic 
will marry her.” 

“ But why? I thought that he had de- 
clared that he would give it up. I thought 
that he had said so to herself.” 

“ What of that, if he retracts what he 
said? He is so weak. Lady Glencora 
Palliser has made him promise to go and 
see her ; and he is to go to-day. He is 
there now, probably, at this very moment. 
If he had been firm, the thing was done. 
After all that has taken place, nobody 
would ever have supposed that his engage- 
ment need go for anything. But what ctin 
he say to her now that he is in with her, 
except just do the mischief all over again ? 
I call it quite wicked in that woman’s in- 
terfering. I do, indeed ! She’s a nasty, 
insolent, impertinent creature ; that’s 
what she is. After all the trouble I’ve 
taken, she comes and undoes it all with 
one word.” 

“ What can we do, Clara? ” 

“AYell; I do believe that if Frederic 
could be made to act as he ought to do, 
just for a while, she would marry her 
cousin, Mr. Greystock, and then there 
would be an end, of it altogether. I really 
think that she likes him best, and from all 
that I can hear she would take him now, 
if Frederic would only keep out of the 
way. As for him, of course he is doing 
his very best to get her. He has not one 
shilling to rub against another, and is 
over head and ears in debt.” 

“ Poor Lucy ! ” ejaculated Lady Fawn. 

“ Well, yes ; but really that is a matter 
of course. I always thought, mamma, 


262 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


that you and Amelia were a little wrong 
to coax her up in that belief.” 

‘‘But, my dear, the man proposed for 
her in the plainest possible manner. I 
saw his letter.” 

“ No doubt ; men do propose. We all 
know that. I’m sure I don’t know what 
they get by it, but I suppose it amuses 
them. There used to be a sort of feeling 
that if a man behaved badly something 
would be done to him ; but that’s all over 
now. A man may propose to whom he 
likes, and if he chooses to say afterwards 
that it doesn’t mean anything, there’s 
nothing in the world to bring him to 
book.” 

“ That’s very hard,” said the elder lady, 
of whom everybody said that she did not 
understand the world as well as her 
daughter. 

“ The girls — they all know that it is so, 
and I suppose it comes to the same thing 
in the long run. The men have to marry, 
and what one girl loses another girl gets.” 

“ It will kill Lucy.” 

“ Girls ain’t killed so easy, mamma — 
not now-a-days. Saying that it will kill 
her won’t change the man’s nature. It 
wasn’t to be expected that such a man as 
Frank Greystock, in debt, and in Parlia- 
ment, and going to all the best houses, 
should marry your governess. VYhat was 
he to get by it? That’s what I want to 
know.” 

“ I suppose he loved her.” 

“ Laws, mamma, how antediluvian you 
are ! No doubt he did like her— after his 
fashion ; though what he saw in her, I 
never could tell. I think Miss Morris 
would make a very nice wife for a country 
clergyman who didn’t care how poor things 
were. But she has no style ; and as far as 
I can see she has no beauty. Why should 
such a man as Frank Greystock tie himself 
by the leg for ever to such a girl as that? 
But, mamma, he doesn’t mean to marry 
Lucy Morris. Would he have been going 
on in that way with his cousin down in 
Scotland had he meant it? He means 
nothing of the kind. He means to marry 
Lady Eustace’s income if he caji get it ; 
and she would marry him before the sum- 
mer, if only we could keep Frederic away 
from her.” 

Mrs. Hittaway demanded from her 
mother that in season and out of season 
she should be urgent with Lord Fawn, 
impre.ssing upon him the necessity of 


waiting, in order that he might see how 
false Lady Eustace was to him ; and also 
that she should teach Lucy Morris how 
vain were all her hopes. If Lucy Morris 
would withdraw her claim^.altogether the 
thing might probably be more quickly 
and more surely managed. If Lucy could 
be induced to tell Frank that she with- 
drew her claim, and that she saw how im- 
possible it was that they should ever be 
man and wife, then — so argued Mrs. Hit 
taway — Frank would at once throw him- 
self at his cousin’s feet, and all the diffi- 
culty would be over. The abominable, 
unjustifiable, and insolent interference of 
Lady Glencora just at the present moment 
would be the means of undoing all the 
good that had been done, unless it could 
be neutralized by some such activity as 
this. The necklace had absolutely faded 
away into nothing. The sly creature 
w'as almost becoming a heroine on the 
strength of the necklace. The very mys- 
tery with which the robberies were per- 
vaded was acting in h^r favor. Lord 
Fawn would absolutely be made to marry 
her — forced into it by Lady Glencora and 
that set — unless the love affair between 
her and her cousin, of which Andy Gow- 
ran was able to give such sufficient testi- 
mony, could in some way be made availa- 
ble to prevent it. 

The theory of life and system on which 
social matters should be managed, as dis- 
played by her married daughter, was very 
painful to poor old Lady Fawn. When 
she was told that under the new order of 
things promises from gentlemen were not 
to be looked upon as binding, that love 
was to go for nothing, that girls were to 
.be made contented by being told that when 
one lover was lost another could be found, 
she was very unhappy. She could not 
disbelieve it all, and throw herself back 
upon her faith in virtue, constancy, and 
honesty. She rather thought that things 
had changed for the worse since she was 
young, and that promises were not now as 
binding as they used to be. She herself 
had married into a liberal family, had a 
liberal son, and would have called herself 
a Liberal ; but she could not fail to hear 
from others, her neighbors, that the Eng- 
lish manners, and English principles, and 
English society were all going to destruc- 
tion in consequence of the so-called liber- 
ality of the age. Gentlemen, she thought, 
certainly did do things which gentlemen 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


263 


would not have done forty years ago ; and 
as for ladies — they, doubtless, were chang- 
ed altogether. Most assuredly she could 
not have brought an Andy Gowran to her 
mother to tell such tales in their joint 
presence as this man had told ! 

Mrs. Hittaway had ridiculed her for 
saying that poor Lucy would die when 
forced to give up her lover. Mrs. Hitta- 
way had spoken of the necessity of break- 
ing up that engagement without a word 
of anger against Frank Grej^stock. Ac- 
cording to Mrs. Hittaway ’s views Frank 
Gre 3 ^stock had amused himself in the most 
natural way in the world when he asked 
Lucy to be his wife. A governess like 
Lucy had been quite foolish to expect that 
"such a man as Grej^stock was in earnest. 
Of course she must give up her lover ; and 
if there must be blame she must blame 
herself for her folly ! Nevertheless, Lady 
Fawn was so soft-hearted that she believed 
that the sorrow would crush Lucy, even 
if it did not kill her. 

But not the less was it her duty to tell 
Lucy what she thought to be the truth. 
The story of what had occurred among 
the rocks at Portray was very disagree- 
able, but she believed it to be true. The 
man had been making love to his cousin 
after his engagement to Lucy. And then, 
was it not quite manifest that he was 
neglecting poor Lucy in every way ? He 
had not seen her for nearly six months. 
Had he intended to marry her, would he 
not have found a home for her at the 
deanery ? Did he in any respect treat her 
as he would treat the girl whom he in- 
tended to marry? Putting ail these 
things together. Lady Fawn thought that 
she saw that Lucy’s case was hopeless ; 
and, so thinking, wrote to her the follow- 
ing letter : 

“ Fawn Court, 3d March, 18—. 

“ Dearest Lucy : I have so much to 
say to you that I did think of getting 
Lady Linlithgow to let you come to us 
here for a day, but I believe it will per- 
haps be better that I should write. I 
think 3 ’’ou leave Lady Linlithgow after the 
first week in April, and it is quite neces- 
sary that you should come to some fixed 
arrangement as to the future. If that 
were all, there need not be any trouble, 
as you will come here, of course. Indeed, 
this is your natural home, as we all feel ; 
and I must say that we have missed you 


most terribly since you went, not only for 
Cecilia and Nina, but for all of us. And 
I don’t know that I should write at all if 
it wasn’t for something else, that must be 
said sooner or later ; because, as to your 
coming here in April, that is so much a 
matter of (SDurse. The only mistake was, 
that you should ever have gone away. So 
we shall expect you here on whatever day 
you may arrange with Lady Linlithgow 
as to leaving her.” The poor, dear lady 
went on repeating her afiectionate invita- 
tion, because of the difficulty she encoun- 
tered in finding words with which to give 
the cruel counsel which she thought that 
it was her duty to offer. 

“And now, dearest Lucy, I must say 
what I believe to be the truth about Mr. 
Grej^stock. I think that you should teach 
yourself to forget him, or at any rate, 
that you should teach yourself to forget 
the offer which he made ’ to j^ou last au- 
tumn. Whether he was or was not in 
earnest then, I think that he has now de- 
termined to forget it. I fear there is no 
doubt that he has been making love to 
his cousin. Lady Eustace. You well 
know that I should not mention such a 
thing, if I had not the strongest possible 
grounds to convince me that I ought to do 
so. But, independent of this, his conduct 
to 3 "Ou during the last six months has 
been such as to make us all feel sure that 
the engagement is distasteful to him. He 
has probably found himself so placed 
that he cannot marry without money, and 
has wanted the firmness, or perhaps you 
will say the hardness of heart, to say so 
openly. I am sure of this, and so is 
Amelia, that it will be better for you to 
give the matter up altogether, and to 
come here and recover the blow among 
friends who will be as kind to you as pos- 
sible. I know all that you will feel, and 
3 ’ou have my fullest sympathy ; but even 
such sorrows as that are cured by time, 
and by the mercy of God, which is not 
only infinite, but all-powerful. 

“ Your most affectionate friend, 

“C. Fawn.” 

Lady Fawn, when she had written her 
letter, discussed it with Amelia, and the 
two together agreed that Lucy would 
never surmount the ill effects of the blow 
which was thus prophesied. “ As to say- 
ing it will kill her, mamma,” said Ame- 
lia, “I don’t l3elieve in that. If I were 


264 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


to break iny leg, the accident might 
shorten my life, and this may shorten 
hers. It won’t kill her in any other way. 
But it will alter her altogether. Nobody 
ever used to make herself happy so easily 
as Lucy Morris, but all that will be gone 
now.” • 

When Lucy received the letter, the im- 
mediate effect upon her, the effect which 
came from the first reading of it, was not 
very great. She succeeded for some half- 
hour in putting it aside, as referring to a 
subject on which she had quite made up 
iier mind in a direction contrary to that 
indicated by her correspondent’s advice. 
Lady Fawn told her that her lover intend- 
ed to be false to her. She had thought 
the matter over very carefully within the 
last day or two, and had altogether made 
up her mind that she would continue to 
trust her lover. She had abstained from 
sending to him the letter which she had 
written, and had abstained on that reso- 
lution. Lady Fawn, of' course, was as 
kind and friendly as a friend could be. 
She loved Lady Fawn dearly. But she 
was not bound to think Lady Fawn right, 
and in this instance she did not think 
Lady Fawn right. So she folded up the 
letter and put it in her pocket. 

But by putting the letter into her 
pocket she could not put it out of her mind. 
Though she had resolved, of what use to 
her was a resolution in which she could 
not trust? Day had passed by after day, 
week after week, and month after month, 
and her very soul within her had become 
sad for want of seeing this man, who was 
living almost in the next street to her. 
She was ashamed to own to herself how 
many hours she had sat at the window, 
thinking that, perhaps, he might walk 
before the house in which he knew that 
she was immured. And, even had it been 
impossible that he should come to her, 
the post was open to him. She had 
scorned to write to him oftener than he 
would write to her, and now their corre- 
spondence had dwindled almost to noth- 
ing. He knew as well as did Lady Fawn 
^vhen the period of her incarceration in 
Ijady Linlithgow’s dungeon would come 
to an end ; and he knew, too, how great 
had been her hope that she might be ac- 
cepted as a guest at the deanery when 
that period should arrive. He knew that 
she must look for a new home, unless he 
would tell her where she should live. 


Was it likely, was it possible, that he 
should be silent so long if he still intended 
to make her his wife? No doubt he had 
come to remember his debts, to remember 
his ambition, to think of his cousin’s 
wealthy- and to think also of his cousin’s 
beauty. What right had she ever had to 
hope for such a position as that of his 
wife, she who had neither money nor 
beauty, she who had nothing to give him 
in return for his name and the shelter of 
his house beyond her mind and her heart ? 
As she thought of it all, she looked down 
upon her faded gray frock, and stood up 
that she might glance at her features in 
the glass ; and she saw how small she 
was and insignificant, and reminded her- 
self that all she had in the world was a 
few pounds which she had saved and was 
still saving in order that she might go to 
him with decent clothes upon her back . • 
Was it reasonable that sheshould expect it? 

But why had he come to her and made 
her thus wretched ? She could acknowl- 
edge to herself that she had been foolish, 
vain, utterly ignorant of her own value in 
venturing to hope ; perhaps unmaidenly 
in allowing it to be seen that she had 
hoped ; but what was he in having first 
exalted her before all her friends, and 
then abasing her so terribly and bringing 
her to such utter shipwreck? From 
spoken or written reproaches she could 
of course abstain. She would neither 
write nor speak any ; but from unuttered 
reproaches how could she abstain ? She 
had called him a traitor once in playful, 
loving irony, during those few hours in 
which her love had been to her a luxury 
that she could enjoy. But now he was a 
traitor indeed. Had he left her alone she 
would have loved him in silence, and not 
have been wretched in her love. She 
would, she knew, in that case, have had 
vigor enough and sufficient strength of 
character to bear her burden without out- 
ward signs of suffering, without any in- 
ward suffering that would have disturbed 
the current of her life. But now every- 
thing was over with her. She had no 
thought of dying, but her future life wa.s 
a blank to her. 

She came downstairs to sit at lunch 
with Lady Linlithgow, and the old wom- 
an did not perceive that anything wa.s 
amiss with her companion. Further news 
had been heard of Lizzie Eustace, and of 
Lord Fjjwn, and of the robberies, and tlie 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. • 


265 


countess declared how she had read in the 
newspapers that one man was already in 
custody for the burglary at the house in 
Hertford street. From that subject she 
went on to tidings which had reached her 
from her old friend Lady Clantantram 
that the Fawn marriage was on again. 
“ Not that I believe it, my dear ; because 
I think that Mr. Grej’stock has made it 
quite safe in that quarter.” All this 
Lucy heard, and never showed by a single 
sign, or by a motion-of a muscle, that she 
was in pain. Then Lady Linlithgow 
asked her what she meant to do after the 
5th of April. “I don’t see at all why 
you shouldn’t stay here, if you like it. 
Miss Morris ; that is, if you have aban- 
doned the stupid idea of an engagement 
with Frank Greystock.” Lucy smiled, 
and even thanked the countess, and said 
that she had made up her mind to go 
back to Richmond for a month or two, 
till she could get another engagement as 
a governess. Then she returned to her 
room and sat again at her window, look- 
ing out upon the street. 

What did it matter now where she 
went? And yet she must go somewhere, 
and do something. There remained to 
her the wearisome possession of herself, 
and while she lived she must eat, and 
have clothes, and require shelter. She 
could not dawdle out a bitter existence 
under Lady Fawn’s roof, eating the bread 
of charity, hanging about the rooms and 
shrubberies useless and idle. How bitter 
to her was that possession of herself, as 
she felt that there was nothing good to be 
done with the thing so possessed! She 
doubted even whether ever again she 
could become serviceable as a governess, 
and whether the energy would be left to 
her of earning her bread by teaching ade- 
quately the few things that she knew. 
But she must make the attempt, and 
must go on making it, till God in his 
mercy should take her to himself. 

And yet but a few months since life 
had been so sweet to her! As she felt 
this she was not thinking of those siiort 
days of excited feverish bliss, in which she 
had believed that all the good things of 
the world were to be showered into her 
lap ; but of previous years in which every- 
thing had been with her as it was now — 
with the one exception that she had not 
then been deceived. She had been full of 
smiles, and humor, and mirth, absolutely 
hap))y among her friends, though con- 


scious of the necessity of earning her 
bread by the exercise of a most precarious 
profession, while elated by no hope. 
Though she had loved the man and had 
been hopeless, she was happy. But now, 
surely, of all maidens, and of all women, 
she was the most forlorn. 

Having once acceded to the truth of 
Lady Fawn’s views, she abandoned all 
hope. Everybody said so, and it was so. 
There was no wmrd from any side to en- 
courage her. The thing was done and 
over, and she would never mention his 
name again. She would simply beg of all 
the Fawns that no allusion might be made 
to him in her presence. She would never 
blame him, and certainly slm w'ould never 
praise him. As far as she could rule her 
tongue, she would never have his name 
upon her lips again. 

She thought for a time that she would 
send the letter which she had already 
written. Any other letter she could not 
bring herself to write. Even to think of 
him w^as an agony to her ; but to commu- 
nicate her thoughts to him was worse than 
agony. It would be almost madness. 
What need was there for any letter ? If 
the thing was done it was done. Perhaps 
there remained with her, staying by her 
without her own knowledge, some faint 
spark of hope, that even yet he might re- 
turn to her. At last she resolved that 
there should be no letter, and she destroy- 
ed that which she had written. 

But she did write a note to Lady Fawn, 
in which she gratefully accepted her old 
friend’s kindness till such time as she 
could “ find a place.” ” ^is to that other 
subject,” she said, “ I know that you are 
right. Please let it all be as though it 
had never been.” 


CHAPTER LXI. 
lizzie’s great friend. 

The Saturday morning came at last for 
which Lord Fawn had made his appoint- 
ment with Lizzie, and a very important 
day it was in Hertford street, chiefly on 
account of his lordship’s visit, but also in 
respect to other events Avhich crowded 
themselves into the day. In the telling 
of our tale we have gone a little in ad- 
vance of this, as it was not till the subse- 
quent Monday that Lady Linlithgow read 
in the newspaper, and told Lucy, how a 
man had been arrested on account of the 
robbery. Early on the Saturday morning 


266 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Sir Griffin Tewett was in Hertford street, 
and, as Lizzie afterwards understood, 
there was a terrible scene between both 
him and Lucinda and him and Mrs. Car- 
buncle. She saw nothing of it herself, 
but Mrs. Carbuncle brought her the ti- 
dings. For the last few days Mrs. Car- 
buncle had been very affectionate in her 
manner to Lizzie, thereby showing a 
great change; for nearly the whole of 
February the lady, who in fact owned the 
house, had hardly been courteous to her 
remunerative guest, expressing more than 
once a hint that the arrangement which 
had brought them together had better 
come to an end. “You see, Lady Eus- 
tace,” Mrs. Carbuncle had once said, 
“ the trouble about these robberies is al- 
most too much for me.” Lizzie, who was 
ill at the time, and still trembling with 
constant fear on account of the lost dia- 
monds, had taken advantage of her sick 
condition, and declined to argue the ques- 
tion of her removal. Now she was sup- 
posed to be convalescent, but Mrs. Car- 
buncle had returned to her former ways 
of affection. No doubt there was cause 
for this — cause that was patent to Lizzie 
herself. Lady Glencora Palliser had 
called, which thing alone was felt by Liz- 
zie to alter her position altogether. And 
then, though her diamonds were gone, 
and though the thieves who had stolen 
them were undoubtedly aware of her se- 
cret as to the first robbery, though she 
had herself told that secret to Lord 
George, whom she had not seen since she 
had done so, in spite of all these causes 
for trouble, she had of late gradually found 
herself to be emerging from the state of 
despondency into which she had fallen 
while the diamonds were in her own cus- 
tody. She knew that she was regaining 
her ascendancy ; and therefore when Mrs. 
Carbuncle came to tell her of the grievous 
things which had been said down staiis 
between Sir Griffin and his mistress, and 
to consult her as to the future, Lizzie was 
not surprised. ‘ ‘ I suppose the meaning of 
it is that the match must be off,” said Lizzie. 

“ Oh dear no ; pray don’t say anything 
so horrid after all that I have gone 
through. Don’t suggest anything of that 
kind to Lucinda.” 

“ But surely after what you’ve told me 
now, he’ll never come here again.” 

“Oh yes, he will. There’s no danger 
about his coming back. It’s only a sort 
of a way he has.” 


“ A very disagreeable way,” said Lizzie. 

“ No doubt. Lady Eustace. But then 
you know you can’t have it all sweet. 
There must be some things disagreeable. 
As far as I can learn the property will be 
all right after a few years, and it is abso- 
lutely indispensable that Lucinda should 
do something. She has accepted him and 
she must go on with it.” 

“ She seems to me to be very unhappy, 
Mrs. Carbuncle.” 

“ That was always her way. She was 
never gay and cheery like other girls. 1 
have never known her once to be wffiat you 
would call happy.” 

“She likes hunting.” 

“ Yes, because she can gallop away out 
of herself. I have done all I can for her, 
and she must go on with the marriage 
now. As for going back, it is out of the 
question. The truth is, we couldn’t af- 
ford it.” 

“ Then you must keep him in a better 
humor.” 

“ I am not so much afraid about him^; 
but, dear Lady Eustace, we want you to 
help us a little.” 

“ How can I help you ? ” 

“ You can, certainly. Could you lend 
me two hundred and fifty pounds just for 
six weeks?” Lizzie’s face fell and her 
eyes became very serious in their aspect. 
Two hundred and fifty pounds ! “ You 

know you would have ample security. 
You need not give Lucinda her present till 
I’ve paid you, and that will be forty-five 
pounds.” 

“ Thirty-five,” said Lizzie with angry 
decision. 

“ I thought we agreed upon forty-five 
when we settled about the servants’ liver- 
ies ; and then you can let the man at the 
stables know that 1 am to pay for the car- 
riage and horses. You wouldn’t be out 
of the money hardly above a week or so, 
and it might be the salvation of Lucinda 
just at present.” 

“ Why don’t you ask Lord George ? ” 

“ Ask Lord George ! He hasn’t got it. 
It’s much more likelj^ that he should ask 
me. I don’t know what’s come to Lord 
George this last month past. I did be- 
lieve that you and he were to come to- 
gether. I think these two robberies have 
upset him altogether. But, dear Lizzie, 
you can let me have it, can’t you ? ” 

Lizzie did not at all like the idea of lend- 
ing money, and by no means appreciated 
the security now offered to her. It might 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


267 


be very well for her to tell the man at the 
stables that Mrs. Carbuncle would pay 
him her bill, but how would it be with 
her if Mrs. Carbuncle did not pay the 
bill ? And as for her present to Lucinda 
— which was to have been a present, and 
regarded by the future Lady TeAvett as a 
voluntary offering of good will and affec- 
tion — she was altogether averse to having 
it disposed of in this fashion. And yet 
she did not like to make an enemy of Mrs. 
Carbuncle. “ I never was so poor in my 
life before, not since I Avas married,” said 
Lizzie. 

“You can’t be poor, dear Lady Eus- 
tace.” 

“ They took my money out of my desk, 
you know — ever so much.” 

“ Forty-three pounds,” said Mrs. Car- 
buncle, Avho was, of course, well instruct- 
ed.in all the details of the robbery. 

“And I don’t suppose you can guess 
what the autumn cost me at Portray. 
The bills are only coming in now, and re- 
ally they sometimes so frighten me that I 
don’t know what I shall do. Indeed I 
haven’t got the money to spare.” 

“ You’ll have every penny of it back in 
six Aveeks,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, upon 
whose face a glow of anger Avas settling 
down. She quite intended to make her- 
self very disagreeable to her “ dear Lady 
Eustace ” or her “dear Lizzie ” if she did 
not get what she wanted ; and she knew 
very well how to do it. It must be own- 
ed that Lizzie was afraid of the woman. 
It was almost impossible for her not to be 
afraid of the people with whom she lived. 
There were so many things against her ; 
BO many sources of fear! “I am quite 
sure you won’t refuse me such a trifling 
favor as this,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, with 
the gloAV of anger reddening more and 
more upon her brow. 

“ I don’t think I haA'e so much at the 
bankers,” said Lizzie. 

“ They’ll let you overdraw just as much 
as you please. If the check comes back 
that will be my look out.” Lizzie had 
tried that game before, and knew that the 
bankers would allow her to overdraw. 
“ Come, be a good friend and do it at 
once,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ Perhaps I can manage a hundred and 
fifty,” said Lizzie, trembling. Mrs. Car- 
buncle fought hard for the greater sum ; 
but at last consented to take the less, and 
the check was Avritten. 

“ This, of course, won’t interfere with 


Lucinda’s present^” said Mrs. Carbuncle, 
“ as AA'e can make all this right by the 
horse and carriage account.” To this 
proposition, hoAvever, Lady Eustace made 
no ansAver. 

Soon after lunch, at Avhich meal Miss 
Roanoke did not shoAV herself. Lady Glen- 
cora Palliser was announced, and sat for 
about ten minutes in the draAving-room. 
She had come, she said, to give the Duke 
of Omnium's compliments to Lady Eus- 
tace, and to express a wish on the part of 
the duke that the lost diamonds might be 
recovered. “I doubt,” said Lady Glen- 
cora, “ whether there is any one in Eng- 
land except professed jewellers who knows 
so much about diamonds as his grace.” 

“ Or who has so many,” said Mrs. Car- 
buncle, smiling graciously. 

“ I don’t knoAV about that. I suppose 
there are family diamonds, though 1 have 
never seen them. But he sympathizes 
with you completely. Lady Eustace. I 
suppose there is hardly hope now of re- 
covering them ! ” Lizzie smiled and shook 
her head. “ Isn’t it odd that they neA'er 
should have discovered the thieves? I’m 
told they haven’t at all given it up, only, 
unfortunately they’ll never get back the 
necklace.” She sat there for about a 
quarter of an hour, and then, as she took 
her leave, she whispered a feAV words to 
Lizzie. “ He is to come and see you, isn’t 
he?” Lizzie assented with a smile, but 
without a word. “ I hope it will be all 
right,” said Lady Glencora, and then she 
Avent. 

Lizzie liked this friendship from Lady 
Glencora amazingly. Perhaps, after all, 
nothing more would ever be knoAvn about 
the diamonds, and they would simply be 
remembered as having added a peculiar 
and not injurious mystery to her life. 
Lord George knew, but then she trusted 
that a benevolent, true-hearted Corsair, 
such as was Lord George, would neA'er 
tell the story against her. The thieves 
knew, but surely they, if not detected, 
Avould never tell. And if the story Avere 
told by thieves, or even by a Corsair, at 
any rate half the world would not belieA'e 
it. What she had feared — had feared till 
the dread had nearly overcome her — was 
public exposure at the hands of the police. 
If she could escape that, the world might 
still be bright before her. And the inter- 
est taken in her by such persons as the 
Duke of Omnium and Lady Glencora AV'as 
evidence not only that she had escaped it 


268 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


hitherto, but also that she was in a fair 
way to escape it altogether. Three weeks 
ago she would have given up half her in- 
come to have been able to steal out of 
London without leaving a trace behind 
her. Three weeks ago Mrs. Carbuncle 
was treating her with discourtesy, and 
she was left alone nearly the whole day in 
her sick bedroom. Things were going 
better ^dth her now. She was recovering 
her position. Mr. Camperdown, who had 
been the first to attack her, was, so to 
say, “ nowhere.” He had acknowledged 
himself beaten. Lord Fawn, whose treat- 
ment to her had been so great an injury, 
was coming to see her that yery day. Her 
cousin Frank, though he had never offered 
to marry her, was more affectionate to her 
than ever. Mrs. Carbuncle had been at 
her feet that morning borrowing money. 
And Lady Glencora Palliser, the very 
leading star of fashion, had called upon 
her twice! Why should she succumb? 
She had an income of four thousand 
pounds a year, and she thought that she 
could remember that her aunt. Lady Lin- 
lithgow, had but seven hundred pounds. 
Lady Fawn with all her daughters had 
not near so much as she had. And she 
was beautiful, too, and young, and per- 
fectly free to do what she pleased. No 
doubt the last eighteen months of her life 
had been made wretched by those horrid 
diamonds ; but they were gone, and she 
had fair reason to hope that the very 
knowledge of them was gone also. 

In this condition, would it be expedient 
for her to accept Lord Fawn when he 
came? She could not, of course, be sure 
that any renewed offer would be the result 
of his visit : but she thought it probable 
that with care she might bring him to 
that. Why should he come to her if he 
himself had ho such intention ? Her mind 
was quite made up on this point, that he 
should be made to renew hLs offer; but 
whether she would renew her acceptance 
was quite another question. *She had 
sworn to her cousin Frank that she would 
never do so, and she had sworn also that 
she would be revenged on this wretched 
lord. Now would be her opportunity of 
accomplishing her revenge, and of proving 
to Frank that she had been in earnest. 
And she positively disliked the man. 
That probably did not go for much, but 
it went for something, even with Lizzie 
Eustace. Her cousin she did like, and 
Lord George. She hardly knew which 


was her real love, though' no doubt she 
gave the preference greatly to her cousin, 
because she could trust him. And then 
Lord Fawn was very poor. The other two 
men were poor also ; but their poverty 
was not so olyectionable in Lizzie’s eyes 
as were the respectable, close-fisted econ- 
omies of Lord Fawn. Lord Fawn, no 
doubt, had an assured income and a real 
peerage, and could make her a peeress. 
As she thought of it all, she acknowledged 
that there was a great deal to be said on 
each side, and that the necessity of mak- 
ing up her mind then and there was a 
heavy burthen upon her. 

Exactly at the hour named Lord Fawn 
came, and Lizzie was, of course, found 
alone. That had been carefully provided. 
He was shown up, and she received him 
very gracefully. She was sitting, and she 
rose from her chair, and put out her hand 
for him to take. She spoke no word of 
greeting, but looked at him with a pleas- 
ant smile, and stood for a few seconds 
with her hand in his. He was awkward, 
and much embarrassed, and she certainly 
had no intention of lessening his embar- 
rassment. “I hope you are better thaii 
you have been,” he said at last. 

“I am getting better. Lord Fawn.. 
Will you not sit down ? ” He then seated 
himself, placing his hat beside him on the 
floor, but at the moment could not find 
words to speak. “ I have been very ill.” 
“ I have been so sorry to hear it.” 

“ There has ^been much to make me ill 
— has there not? ” 

“ About the robbery, you mean ? ” 

“ About many things. The robbery 
has been by no means the worst, though 
no doubt it frightened me much. There 
were two robberies. Lord Fawn.” 

“ Yes, I know that.” 

“ And it was very terrible. And then, 
I had been threatened with a lawsuit. 
You have heard that, too ? ” 

“ Yes — I had heard it ” 

“ I believe they have given that up 
now, I understand from my cousin, Mr. 
Greystock, who has been my truest friend 
in all my troubles, that the stupid people 
have found out at last that they had not a 
leg to stand on. I dare say you have heard 
that. Lord Fawn ? ” 

Lord Fawn certainly had heard, in a 
doubtful way, the gist of Mr. Dove’s opin- 
ion, namely, that the necklace could not be 
claimed frf^m the holder of it as an heir- 
loom attached to the Eustace fiimily. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 969 


But he had heard at the same time that 
^Ir. Camperdown was as confident as ever 
that he could recover the property by 
claiming it after another fashion. Wheth- 
er or no that claim had been altogecher 
abandoned, or had been allowed to fall 
into abeyance because of the absence of 
the diamonds, he did not know, nor did 
any one know — Mr. Camperdown himself 
having come to no decision on the subject. 
But Lord Fawn had been aware that his 
sister had of late shifted the ground of 
her inveterate enmity to Lizzie Eustace, 
making use of the scene which M/. Gow- 
ran had witnessed, in lieu of the lady’s 
rapacity in regard to the necklace. It 
might therefore be assumed. Lord Fawn 
thought and feared, that his strong ground 
in regard to the necklace had been cut 
from under his feet. But still, it did not 
behoove him to confess that the cause 
which he had always alleged as the 
ground for his retreat from the engage- 
ment was no cause at all. It might go 
hard with him should an attempt be made 
to force him to name another cause. He 
knew that he would lack the courage to 
tell the lady that he had heard from his 
sister that one Andy Gowran had wit- 
nessed a terrible scene down among the 
rocks at Portray. So he sat silent, and 
made no answer to Lizzie’s first assertion 
respecting the diamonds. 

But the necklace was her strong point, 
and she did not intend that he should es- 
cape the subject. “ If I remember right. 
Lord FaAvn,you yourself saw that wretch- 
ed old attorney once or twice on the sub- 
ject? ” 

“ I did see Mr. Camperdown, certainly. 
He is my own family lawyer.” 

“ You were kind enough to interest 
yourself about the diamonds — were you 
not ? ” She asked him this as a question, 
and then waited for a reply. “ Was it 
not so? ” 

“ Yes, Lady Eustace ; it was so.” 

“ They were of great value, and it was 
natural,” continued Lizzie. “ Of course 
you interested yourself. Mr. Camper- 
down was full of awful threats against me 
— was he not? I dvm’t know what he 
was not going to do. lie stopped me in 
the street as I was driving to the station 
in my own carriage, when the diamonds 
were with me ; which was a very strong 
measure, I think. And he wrote me 
ever so many, oh, such horrid letters. 
And he went about telling evei-ybody 


that it was an heirloom — didn’t he ? You 
know all that. Lord Fawn? ” 

“ I know that he wanted to recover 
them.” 

* “ And did he tell you that he went to a 

real lawyer, somebody who really knew 
about it, Mr. Turbot, or Turtle, or some 
such name as that, and the real lawyer 
told him that he was all wrong, and that 
the necklace couldn’t be an heirloom at 
all, because it belonged to me, and that 
he had better drop his lawsuit altogether ? 
Did you hear that? ” 

“ No ; I did not hear that.” 

“Ah, Lord Fawn, you dropped your 
inquiries just at the wrong place. No 
doubt you had too many things to do in 
Parliament and the Government to go on 
with them ; but if you had gone on, you 
would have learned that Mr. Camperdown 
had just to give it up, because he had 
been wrong from beginning to end.” 
Lizzie’s words fell from her with extreme 
rapidity, and she had become almost out 
of breath from the effects of her own 
energy. 

Lord Fawn felt strongly the necessity 
of clinging to the diamonds as h.is one 
great and sufficient justification. “I 
thought,” said he, “ that Mr. Camper- 
down had abandoned his action for the 
present because the jewels had been 
stolen.” 

“ Not a bit of it,” said Lizzie, rising 
suddenly to her legs. “Who says so? 
Who dares to say so? Whoever says so 
is — is a story-teller. I understand all 
about that. The action could go on just 
the same, and I could be made to pay for 
the necklace out of my own income if it 
hadn’t been my own. I am sure. Lord 
Fawn, such a clever man as you, and one 
who has always been in the Government 
and in Parliament, can see that. And 
will anybody believe that such an enemy 
as Mr. Camperdown has been to me, per- 
secuting me in every possible way, telling 
lies about everybody, who tried to pre- 
vent my dear, darling husband from mar- 
rying me, that he wouldn’t go on with it 
if he could?” 

“ ;Mr. Camperdown is a very respect- 
able man. Lady Eustace.” 

“ Respectable ! Talk to me of respect- 
able after all that he has made me su filer ! 
As you were so fond of making inquiries. 
Lord Fawn, you ought to have gone on 
with them. You never would believe 
what my cousin said.” 


270 


THE EUSTACE DIAJVIONDS. 


“Your cousin always behaved very 
badly to me.” 

“ My cousin, who is a brother rathor 
than a cousin, has known how to protect 
me from the injuries done to me, or 
rather, has known how to take my part 
when I have been injured. My lord, as 
you have been unwilling to believe him, 
why have you not gone to that gentleman 
who, as I say, is a real lawyer? I don’t 
know, my lord, that it need have con- 
cerned you at all, but as you began, you 
surely should have gone on with it. Don’t 
you think so?” She was still standing 
up and, small as was her stature, was 
almost menacing the unfortunate Under- 
secretary of State, who was still seated in 
his chair. “ My lord,” continued Lizzie, 
“ 1 have had great wrong done me.” 

“ Do you mean by me? ” 

“ Yes, by you. Who else has done it? ” 

“ I do not think that I have done wrong 
to any one. I was obliged to say that I 
could not recognize those diamonds as the 
property of my wife.” 

“ But what right had you to say so ? I 
had the diamonds when you asked me to 
be yoiw wife.” 

“ 1 did not know it.” 

“ Nor did you know that 1 had this lit- 
tle ring upon my finger. Is it fit that you, 
or that any man should turn round upon a 
lady and say to her that your word is to 
be broken, and that she is to be exposed 
before all her friends, because you have 
taken a fancy to dislike her ring or her 
brooch? I say. Lord Fawn, it was no 
business of yours, even after you were en- 
gaged to me. What jewels I might have, 
or not have, was no concern of yours till 
after I had become your wife. Go and 
ask all the world if it is not so ? You 
say that my cousin afironts you because 
he takes my part, like a brother. Ask 
any one else. Ask any lady you may 
know. Let us name some one to decide 
between us which of us has been wrong. 
Lady Glencora Palliser is a friend of 
yours, and her husband is in the Govern- 
ment. Shall we name her? It is true, 
indeed, that her uncle, the Duke of Om- 
nium, the grandest and greatest of Eng- 
lish noblemen, is specially interested on 
my behalf.” This was very fine in Lizzie. 
The Duke of Omnium she had never seen ; 
but his name had been mentioned to her 
by Lady Glencora, and she was quick to 
use it. 


“ I can admit of no reference to any 
one,” said Lord Fawn. 

“ And I then, what am I to do ? I am 
to be thrown over simply because your 
lordship — chooses to throw me over. 
Your lordship will admit no reference to 
any one ! Your lordship makes inquiries 
as long as an attorney tells you stories 
against me, but drops them at once when 
the attorney is made to understand that 
he is wrong. Tell me this, sir. Can you 
justify yourself in your own heart? ” 

Unfortunately for Lord Fawn, he was 
not sure that he could justify himself. 
The diamonds were gone, and the action 
was laid aside, and the general opinion 
which had prevailed a month or two 
since, that Lizzie had been disreputably 
concerned in stealing her own necklace, 
seemed to have been laid aside. Lady 
Glencora and the duke went for almost as 
much with Lord Fawn as they did with 
Lizzie. No doubt the misbehavior down 
among the rocks was left to him ; but he 
had that only on the evidence of Andy 
Gowran, and even Andy Gowran’s evi- 
dence he had declined to receive otherwise 
than second-hand. Lizzie, too, was pre- 
pared with an answer to this charge, an 
answer which she had already made more 
than once, though the charge was not posi- 
tively brought against her, and which 
consisted in an assertion that Frank Grey- 
stock was her brother rather than her 
cousin. Such brotherhood was not alto- 
gether satisfactory to Lord Fawn, when 
he came once more to regard Lizzie Eus- 
tace as his possible future wife ; but still 
the assertion was an answer, and one that 
he could not altogether reject. 

It certainly was the case that he had 
again begun to think what would be the 
result of a marriage with Lady Eustace. 
He must sever himself altogether from 
Mrs. Hittaway, and must relax the close- 
ness of his relations with Fawn Court 
He would have a wife respecting whom 
he himself had spread evil tidings, and 
the man whom he most hated in the 
world would be his wife’s favorite cousin 
or, so to say, brother. He would, after a 
fashion, be connected with Mrs. Carbun- 
cle, Lord George de Bruce Carruthers, 
and Sir Griffin Tewett, all of whom he 
regarded as thoroughly disreputable. 
And, moreover, at his own country house 
at Portray, as in such case it would be, 
his own bailiff or steward would be the 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


271 


man who had seen, what he had seen. 
These were great objections ; but how 
was he to avoid marrying? He was en- 
gaged to her. IIow, at any rate; was he 
to escape from the renewal of his engage- 
ment at this moment ? He had more than 
once positively stated that he was de- 
terred from marrying her only by her 
possession of the diamonds. The dia- 
monds were now gone. 

Lizzie was still standing, waiting for an 
answer to her question. Can you justify 
yourself in your own heart? Having 
paused for some seconds she repeated her 
question in a stronger and more personal 
form. “ Had I been your sister, Lord 
Fawn, and had another man behaved to 
me as you have now done, would you say 
that he had behaved well and that she 
had no ground for complaint? Canyon 
bring yourself to answer that question 
honestly? ” 

“ I hope 1 shall answer no question dis- 
honestly.” 

“ Answer it then. No ; you cannot 
answer it, because you would condemn 
yourself. Now, Lord Fawn, what do you 
mean to do? ” 

“ I had thought, Lady Eustace, that 
any regard which you might ever have 
entertained for me ” 

“Well; what had you thought of iny 
regard?” 

“ That it had been dissipated.” 

‘ ‘ Have I told yo u so ? Has any one come 
to you from me with such a message?” 

“ Have you not received attentions from 
any one else? ” 

“ Attentions ; what attentions ? I have 
received plenty of attentions, most flatter- 
ing attentions. I was honored even this 
morning by a most gratifying attention 
on the part of his grace the Duke of Om- 
nium.” 

“ I did not mean that.” 

“ What do you mean, then? I am not 
going to marry the Duke of Omnium be- 
cause of his attention, nor any one else. 
If you mean, sir, after the other inquiries 
you have done me the honor to make, to 
throw it in my face now, that I have — 
have in any way rendered myself un- 
worthy of the position of your wife be- 
cause people have been civil and kind to 
me in my sorrow, you are a greater das- 
tard than I took you to be. Tell me at 
once, sir, whom you mean.” 

It is hardly too much to say that the 
man quailed before her. And it certainly 


is not too much to say that, had Lizzie 
Eustace been trained as an actress, she 
would have become a favorite with the 
town. When there came to her any fair 
scope for acting, she was perfect. In the 
ordinary scenes of ordinary life, such as 
befell her during her visit to Fawn Court, 
she could not acquit herself well. There 
was no reality about her, and the want of 
it was strangely plain to most unobservant 
ej^es. But give her a part to play that 
required exaggerated, strong action, and 
she hardly ever failed. Even in that ter- 
rible moment, when, on her return from 
the theatre, she thought that the police 
had discovered her secret about the dia- 
monds, though she nearly sank through 
fear, she still carried on her acting in the 
presence of Lucinda Roanoke ; and when 
she had found herself constrained to tell 
the truth to Lord George Carruthers, the 
power to personify a poor weak, injured 
creature was not wanting to her. The 
reader will not think that her position in 
society at the present moment was very 
well established, will feel, probably, that 
she must still have known herself to be on 
the brink of social ruin. But she had 
now fully worked herself up to the neces- 
sities of the occasion, and was as able to 
play her part as any actress that ever 
walked the boards. She had called him 
a dastard, and now stood looking him in 
the face. “I didn’t mean anybody in 
particular,” said Lord Fawn. 

“ Then what right can you have to ask 
me whether I have received attentions? 
Had it not been for the aflectionate atten- 
tion of my cousin, Mr. Greystock, I should 
have died beneath the load of sorrow you. 
have heaped upon me.” This she said 
quite boldly, and yet the man she named 
was he of whom Andy Gowran told his 
horrid story, and whose love-making to 
Lizzie had, in Mrs. Hittaway’s opinion, 
been sufficient to atone for any falling off 
of strength in the matter of the diamonds. 

“A rumor^ reached me,” said Lord 
Fawn, plucking up his courage, “ that 
you were engaged to marry your cousin.” 

“ Then rumor lied, my lord. And he 
or she who repeated the rumor to you, lied 
also. And any he or she who repeats it 
again will go on with the lie.” Lord 
Fawn’s brow became vei*y black. The 
word “lie” itself was offensive to him, 
ofiensive even though it might not be 
applied directly to himself ; but he still 
quailed, and was unable to express his in- 


272 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


dignation — as he had done to poor Lucy 
Morris, Lis mother’s governess. “ And 
now let me ask, Lord Fawn, on what 
ground you and I stand together. When 
my friend Lady Glencora asked me, only 
this morning, whether my engagement 
with you* was still an existing fact, and 
brought me the kindest possible message 
on the same subject from her uncle, the 
duke, I hardly knew what answer to 
make her.” It was not surprising that 
Lizzie in her difficulties should use her 
new friend, but perhaps she overdid the. 
friendship a little. “ I told her that we 
were engaged, but that your lordship’s 
conduct to me had been so strange that I 
hardly knew how to speak of you among 
my friends.” 

“ I thought I explained myself to your 
cousin.” 

“My cousin certainly did not under- 
stand your explanation.” 

Lord Fawn was certain that Gre3"stock 
had understood it well ; and Greystock 
had in return insulted him because the 
engagement was broken off. But it is im- 
possible to argue on facts with a woman 
who has been ill-used. “After all that 
has passed perhaps we had better part,” 
said Lord Fawn. 

“ Then I shall put th^ matter into the 
hands of the Duke of Omnium,” said Liz- 
zie boldly. “ I will not have my whole 
life ruined, my good name blasted ” 

“ I have not said a word to injure your 
good name.” 

“ On what plea then, have 5*ou dared 
to take upon yourself to put an end to an 
engagement wdiich was made at your own 
pressing request — which was, of course, 
made at your own request? On what 
ground do you justify such conduct ? You 
are a Liberal, Lord Fawn ; and everybody 
regards the Duke of Omnium as the head 
of the liberal nobility in England. He is 
my friend, and I shall put the matter into 
his hands.” It was probably from her 
cousin Frank that Lizzie had learned that 
Lord Fawn was more afraid of the leaders 
of his own party than of any other tribu- 
nal upon earth — or perhaps elsewhere. 

Lord Fawn felt the absurdity of the 
threat, and jret it had effect upon him. 
He knew that the Duke of Omnium was a 
worn-out old debauchee, with one foot in 
the grave, who was looked after by two or 
three women who were only anxious that 
he should not disgrace himself by some 
absurdity before he died. Nevertheless 


the Duke of Omnium, or the duke name, 
was a power in the nation. Lady Glen- 
cora was certainly very powerful, and 
Lady Glencora ’s husband was Chancellor 
of the Exchequer. He did not suppose 
that the duke cared in the least whether 
Lizzie Eustace was or was not married ; 
but Lady Glencora had certainly interest- 
ed herself about Lizzie, and might make 
London almost too hot to hold him if she 
chose to go about everywhere saying that 
he ought to marry the lady. And in ad- 
dition to all this prospective grief, there 
was the trouble of the present moment. 
He was in Lizzie’s own room — fool that he 
had been to come there — and he must get 
out as best he could. “ Lady Eustace,” 
he said, “ I am most anxious not to be- 
have badly in this matter.” 

“ But you are behaving badly — very 
badly.” 

“ With your leave I will tell you what 
I would suggest. I will submit to you in 
writing my opinion on this matter — Lord 
Fawn had been all his life submitting his 
opinion in writing, and thought that he 
was rather a good hand at the work. “ I 
will then endeavor to explain to you the 
reasons whicli make me think that it will 
be better for us both that our engagement 
should be at an end. If, after reading it, 
you shall disagree with me, and still in- 
sist on the right which I gave you when I 
asked you to become my wife, I will then 
perform the promise which I certainly 
made.” To this most foolish proposal on 
his part, Lizzie o^ course acquiesced. 
She acquiesced, and bade him farewell 
with her sweetest smile. It was now 
manifest to her that she could have her 
husband, or her revenge, just as she might 
prefer. 

This had been a day of triumph to her, 
and she was talking of it in the evening 
triumphantly to Mrs. Carbuncle, when 
she was told that a policeman wanted to 
see her down stairs ! Oh, those wretched 
police ! Again all the blood rushed to 
her head and nearly killed her. She de- 
scended slowly ; and was then informed 
by a man, not dressed like Bunfit, in plain 
clothes, but with all the paraphernalia of 
a policeman’s uniform, that her late ser- 
vant, Patience Crabstick, had given her- 
self up as Queen’s evidence, and was now 
in custody in Scotland Yard. It had been 
thought right that she should be so far in- 
formed ; but the man was able to tell her 
nothing further. 


CHAPTER LXII. 

“you know where my heart is.” 

O N the Sunday following, Frank, as 
usual, was in Hertford street. He 
had become almost a favorite with Mrs. 
Carbuncle; and had so far ingratiated 
himself even with Lucinda Roanoke that, 
according to Lizzie’s report, he might if 
so inclined rob Sir Griffin of his prize 
without much difficulty. On this occasion 
he was unhappy and in low spirits ; and 
when questioned on the subject made no 
secret of the fact that he was harassed for 
money. “ The truth is, I have overdrawn 
my bankers by five hundred pounds, and 
they have, as they say, ventured to remind 
me of it. I wish they were not venture- 
some quite so often; for they reminded 
me of the same fact about a fortnight 
ago.” 

“What do you do with your money, 
Mr. Greystock?” asked Mrs. Carbuncle 
laughing. 

“ Muddle it away, paying my bills with 
it, according to the very, very ,old story. 
The fact is I live in that detestable no- 
man’s land, between respectability and 
insolvency, which has none of the pleasure 
of either. I am fair game for every cred- 
itor, as I am supposed to pay my way, and 
yet I never can pay my way.” 

“ Just like my poor dear father,” said 
Lizzie. 

“Not exactly, Lizzie. lie managed 
much better, and never paid anybody. If 
I could only land on terra firma, one side 
or the other, I shouldn’t much care which. 
As it is I have all the recklessness, but 
none of the carelessness of the hopelessly 
insolvent man. And it is so hard with us. 
Attomej^s owe us large sums of money, 
and we can’t dun them very well. I have 
a lot of money due to me from rich men, 
who don’t pay me simply because they 
don’t think that it matters. I talk to 
them grandly, and look big, as though 
money was the last thing I thought of, 
when I am longing to touch my hat and 
ask them as a great favor to settle my lit- 
tle bill.” All this time Lizzie was full of 
matter which she must impart to her 
18 


J cousin, and could impart to him on.y in 
privacy. 

It was absolutely necessary that she 
should tell him what she had heard of Pa- 
tience Crabstick. In her heart of hearts 
she wished that Patience Crabstick had 
gone off safely with her plunder to the 
Antipodes. She had no wish to get back 
what had been lost, either in the matter 
of the diamonds or of the smaller things 
taken. She had sincerely wished that the. 
police might fail in all their endeavors, 
and that the thieves might enjoy perfect 
security with their booty. She did not 
even begrudge Mr. Benjamin the dia- 
monds — or Lord George, if in truth Lord 
George had been the last thief. The rob- 
bery had enabled her to get the better of 
Mr. Camperdown, and apparently of Lord 
Fawn ; and had freed her from the custo- 
dy of property which she had learned to 
hate. It had been a very good robbery. 
But now these wretched police had found 
Patience Crabstick and would disturb hex 
again ! 

Of course she must tell her cousin. He 
must hear the news, and it would be bet- 
ter that he should hear it from her than 
from others. This was Sunday, and she 
thought he would be sure to know the 
truth on the following Monday. In this 
she was right ; for on the Monday old 
Lady Linlithgow saw it stated in the 
newspapers that an arrest had been made. 
“ I have something to tell you,” she said, 
as soon as she had succeeded in finding 
herself alone with him. 

“ Anything about the diamonds? ” 

“ W ell, no ; not exactly about the dia 
monds ; though perhaps it is. But first, 
Frank, I want to say something else to 
you.” 

“ Not about the diamonds? ” 

“ Oh no ; not at all. It is this. You 
must let me lend you that five hundred 
pounds you want.” 

“ Indeed, you shall do no such thing. 1 
should not have mentioned it to you if I 
had not thought that jmu were one of the 
insolvent yourself. You were in debt 
yourself when we last talked about 
money.” 


274 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ So 1 am ; and that horrid woman, 
Mrs. Carbuncle, has made me lend her 
one hundred and fifty pounds. But it is 
so different with you, Frank.” 

“ Yes ; my needs are greater than hers.” 

” What is she to nie? while you are 
everything ! Things can’t be so bad with 
me but what I can raise five hundred 
pounds. After all, I am not really in 
debt, for a person with my income ; but 
if I were, still my first duty would be to 
help you if you want help.” 

“ Be generous first, and just afterwards. 
That’s it; isn’t it, Lizzie? But indeed, 
under no circumstances could I take a 
penny of your money. There are some 
persons from whom a man can borrow 
and some from whom he cannot. .Y'’ou are 
(dearly one of those from whom I cannot 
borrow.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ Ah, one can't explain these things. 
It simply is so. Mrs. Carbuncle was 
(^uite the natural person to borrow your 
mone}^ and it seems that she has complied 
with nature. Some Jew who wants thir- 
ty per cent, is the natural person for me. 
All these^ things are arranged, and it is of 
no use disturbing the arrangements and 
getting out of course. I shall pull 
through. And now let me know your 
oAvn news.” 

“The police have taken Patience.” 

“ They have, have they? Then at last 
we shall know all about the diamonds.” 
This was gall to poor Lizzie. “Where 
did they get her? ” 

“ Ah ! I don’t know that.” 

“ And who told you ? ” 

“ A policeman came here last night and 
Siiid so. She is going to turn against the 
thieves and tell all that she knows. Nas- 
ty, mean creature.” 

“ Thievas are nasty, mean creatures 
generally. We shall get it all out now — 
as to what happened at Carlisle and what 
happened here. Do you know that every- 
body believes, up to this moment, that 
your dear friend Lord George de Bruce 
sold the diamonds to Mr. Benjamin the 
jeweller? ” 

Lizzie could only shrug her shoulders. 
She herself, among many doubts, was 
upon the whole disposed to think as 
everybody thought. She did believe — as 
far as she believed anything in the mat- 
ter — that the Corsair had determined to 
become possessed of the prize from the 


moment that he saw it in Scotland ; that 
the Corsair arranged the robbery in Car- 
lisle, and that again he arranged the rol> 
bery in the London house as soon as he 
learned from Lizzie where the diamonds 
were placed. To her mind this had been 
the most ready solution of the mj^stery, 
and when she found that other people al- 
most regarded him as the thief, her doubts 
became a belief. And she did not in the 
least despise or dislike him or condemn 
him for what he had done. Were he to 
come to her and confess it all, telling his 
story in such a manner as to make her 
seem to be safe for the future, she would 
congratulate him and accept him at once 
as her own dear, expected Corsair. But 
if so, he should not have bungled the 
thing. He should have managed his sub- 
ordinates better than to have one of them 
turn evidence against him. He should 
have been able to get rid of a poor weak 
female like Patience Crabstick. Why 
had he not sent her to New York, or — or 
— or anywhere? If Lizzie were to hear 
that Lord George had taken Patience 
Oiit to sea in a yacht — somewhere among 
the bright islands of which she thought 
so much — and dropped the girl over- 
board, tied up in a bag, she would re- 
gard it as a proper Corsair arrangement. 
Now she was angry with Lord George be- 
cause her trouble was coming back upon 
her. Frank had suggested that Lord 
George was the robber in chief, and Liz- 
zie merely shrugged her shoulders. “ We 
shall know all about it now,” said he tri- 
umphantly. 

“ I don’t know that I want to know any 
more about it. I have been so tortured 
about these wretched diamonds that I 
never wish to hear them mentioned again. 
I don’t care who has got them. My ene- 
mies used to think that I loved them so 
well that I could not bear to part with 
them. I hated them always, and never 
took any pleasure in them. I used to 
think that I would throw them into tht 
sea ; and when they were gone I was glad 
ofit.” 

“ Thieves ought to be discovered, Lizzie, 
for the good of the community.” 

“I don’t care for the community. 
What has the community ever done for 
me ? And now I have something else to 
tell you. Ever so many people came yes- 
terday as well as that wretched policeman. 
Dear Lady Glencora was here again.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


2/5 


“ They'll make a Radical of you among 
them, Lizzie.” 

“ I don’t care a bit about that. I’d 
just as soon be a Radical as a stupid old 
Conservative. Lady Glencora has been 
most kind, and she brought me the dear- 
est message from the Duke of Omnium. 
The duke had heard how ill 1 had been 
treated.” 

“ The duke is doting.” 

“It is so easy to say that when a man 
is old. I don’t think you know him, 
Frank.” 

“ Not in the least ; nor do I wish.” 

“ It is something to have the sympathy 
of men high placed in the world. And as 
to Lady Glencora, I do love her dearly. 
She just comes up to my beau ideal of 
what a woman should be — disinterested, 
full of spirit, affectionate, with a dash of 
romance about her.’’ 

“ A great dash of romance, I fancy.” 

“And a determination to be something 
in the world. Lady Glencora Palliser is 
something.” 

“ She is awfully rich, Lizzie.” 

“ I suppose so. At any rate, that is no 
disgrace. And then, Frank, somel)ody 
else came.” 

“ Lord Fawn was to have come.” 

“ He did come.” 

“ And how did it go between you ? ” 

“ Ah, that will be so difficult to explain. 
I wish you had been behind the curtain to 
hear it all. It is so necessary that you 
should know, and yet it is so hard to tell. 
I spoke up to him, and was quite high- 
spirited.” 

“ I dare say you were.” 

“ I told him out bravely of all the wrong 
he had done me. I did not sit and whim- 
per, I can assure j’ou. Then he talked 
about you — of your attentions.” 

Frank Greystock, of course, remembered 
the scene among the rocks, and Mr. Gow- 
ran’s wagging head and watchful eyes. 
At the time he had felt certain that some 
use would be made of Andy’s vigilance, 
though he had not traced the connection 
between the man and Mrs. Ilittaway. 
If Lord Fawn had heard of the little 
scene, there might doubtless be cause 
for him to talk of “ attentions.” “ What 
did it matter to him?” asked Frank. 
“He is an insolent ass — as I have told 
him once, and shall have to tell him 
again.” 

“ I think it did matter, Frank.” 


“ I don’t see it a bit. He had resigned 
his rights — whatever they were.” 

“ But I had not accepted his resignation 
— as they say in the newspapers — nor have 
I now.” 

“ You would still marry him ? ” 

“ I don’t say that, Frank. This is an 
important business, and let us go through 
it steadily. I would certainly like to have 
him again at my feet. ^Vhether I would 
deign to lift him up again is another thing. 
Is not that natural, after what he has 
done to me ? ” 

“ AYoman’s nature.” 

“And I am a woman. Yes, Frank. 
I would have him again at my disposal — 
and he is so. lie is to write me a long 
letter ; so like a Government-man — isn’t 
it ? And he has told me already what he 
is to put in the letter. They always do, 
you know. He is to say that he’ll marry 
me if I choose.” 

“ He has promised to .say that? ” 

“ When he said that he would come, I 
made up my mind that he should not go 
out of the house till he had promised that. 
He couldn’t get out of it. What had 1 
done?” Frank thought of the scene 
among the rocks. He did not, of course, 
allude to it, but Lizzie was not so reticent. 
“ As to what that old i;ogue saw down in 
Scotland,! don’t care a bit about it, Frank. 
He has been up in London, and telling 
them all, no doubt. Nasty, dirty eave.s- 
dropper ! But what does it come to ? 
Psha ! AYhen he mentioned your name I 
silenced him at once. What could I have 
done, unless I had had some friend? At 
any rate, he is to ask me again in writing 
— and then what shall I say? ” 

“ You must consult jmur own heart.” 

“ No, Frank ; I need not do that. 
Why do you say so? ” 

“ I know not what else to say.”’ 

“ A woman can marry without consult- 
ing her heart. Women do so every day. 
This man is a lord, and has a position. 
No doubt I despise him thoroughly — ut- 
terly. I don’t hate him, because he is 
not worth being hated.” 

“ And yet you would marry him? ” 

“ I have not said so. I will tell you 
thi.s (ruth, though perhaps you will say 
it is not feminine. I would fain marry 
some one. To be as I have been for the 
last two years is not a happy condition.” 

“ I would not marry a man I despised.” 
“ Nor would I — willingly. He is hon- 


276 


THE EUSTACE DIALIONDS. 


est and respectable ; and in spite of all 
that has come and gone would, I think, 
behave well to a woman when she was 
once his wife. Of course, I would prefer 
to marry a man that I could love. But 
if that is impossible, Frank ” 

“I thought that you had determined 
that you would have nothing to do with 
his lord.” 

“ I thought so too. Frank, you have 
mown all that I have thought, and all 
that 1 have wished. You talk to me of 
marrying where my heart has been given. 
Ls it possible that I should do so? ” 

“ How am I to say ? ” 

“ Come, Frank, be true with me. lam 
forcing myself to speak truth to you. I 
think that between you and me, at any 
rate, there should be no words spoken 
that are not true. Frank, you know 
where my heart is.” As she said this 
she stood over him and laid her hand 
upon his shoulder. ‘ ‘ W ill you answer me 
one question ? ’ ’ 

“Ifican, I will.” 

“ Are you engaged to marry Lucy Mor- 
ris?” 

“ I am.” 

“ And you intend to marry her? ” To 
this question he made no immediate an- 
swer. “We are old enough now, Frank, 
to know that something more than what 
you call heart is wanted to make us happy 
when we marry. I will say nothing hard 
of Lucy, though she be my rival.” 

“You can say nothing hard of her. 
She is perfect.” 

“We will let that pass, though it is 
hardly kind of you, just at the present 
moment. Let her be perfect. Can you 
marry this perfection without a sixpence 
— you that- are in debt, and who never 
could save a sixpence in your life ? W ould 
it be for her good — or for yours? You 
have done a foolish thing, sir, and you 
know that you must get out of it.” 

“ I know nothing of the kind.” 

“You cannot marry Lucy Morris. 
That is the truth. My present need 
makes me bold. Frank, shall I be your 
wife ? Such a marriage will not be with- 
out love, at any rate on one side, though 
there be utter indifference on the other.” 

“You know I am not indifferent to 
you,” said he, with wicked weakness. 

“Now, at any rate,” she continued, 
“ you must understand what must be my 
\nswer to Lord Fawn. It is you that 


must answer Lord Fawn. If my heart is 
to be broken, I may as well break it under 
his roof as another.” 

“ I have no roof to offer you,” he said. 

“But I have one for you,” she said, 
throwing her arm round his neck. He 
bore her embrace for a minute, returning 
it with the pressure of his arm ; and then, 
escaping from it, seized his hat and left 
her standing in the room. 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

THE CORSAIR IS AFRAID. 

On the following morning — Monday 
morning — there appeared in one of the 
daily newspapers the paragraph of which 
Lady Linlithgow had spoken to Lucy 
Morris. “We are given to understand ” 
— newspapers are very frequently given to 
understand — ‘ ‘ that a man well-known to 
the London police as an accomplished 
housebreaker, has been arrested in refer- 
ence to the robbery which was effected 
on the 30th of January last at Lady Eus- 
tace’s house in Hertford street. No doubt 
the same person was concerned in the 
robbery of her ladyship’s jewels at Carlisle 
on the night of the 8th of January. The 
mystery which has so long enveloped 
these two affairs, and which has been so 
discreditable to the metropolitan police, 
will now probably be cleaned up.” There 
was not a word about Patience Crabstick 
in this ; and, as Lizzie observed, the news 
brought by the policeman on Saturday 
night referred only to Patience, and said 
nothing of the arrest of any burglar. The 
ladies in Hertford street scanned the sen- 
tence with the greatest care, and Mrs. 
Carbuncle was very angry because the 
house was said to be Lizzie’s house. “ It 
wasn’t my doing,” said Lizzie. 

“ The policeman came to you about it.” 

“ I didn’t say a word to the man, and I 
didn’t want him to come.” 

“ I hope it will be all found out now,” 
said Lucinda. 

“I wish it were all clean forgotten,” 
said Lizzie. 

“ It ought to be found out,” said Mrs. 
Carbuncle. “ But the police should be 
more careful in what they say. I Suppose 
we shall all have to go before the magis- 
trates again.” 

Poor Lizzie felt that fresh trouble was 
certainly coming upon her. She had 
learned now that the crime for which she 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


277 


might be prosecuted and punished was 
that of peijury, that even if everything 
was known, she could not be accused of 
stealing, and that if she could only get 
out of the way till the wrath of the magis- 
trate and policemen should have evapo- 
rated, she might possibly escape altogeth- 
er. At any rate, they could not take her 
income away from her. But how could she 
get out of the way, and how could she en- 
dure to be cross-examined, and looked at, 
and inquired into, b}' all those who would 
be concerned in the matter ? She thought 
that, if only she could have arranged her 
matrimonial affairs before the bad day 
came upon her, she could have endured it 
better. If she might be allowed to see 
fvord George, she could ask for advice — 
could ask for advice, not as she was al- 
ways forced to do from her cousin, on a 
false statement of hicts, but with every- 
thing known and declared. 

On that very day Lord George came to 
Hertford street. He had been there more 
than once, perhaps half a dozen times, 
since the robbery ; but on all these occa- 
sions Lizzie had been in bed, and he had 
declined to visit her in her chamber. In 
fact, even Lord George had become some- 
what afraid of her since he had been told 
the true story as to the necklace at Car- 
lisle. That story he had heard from her- 
self, and he had also heard from Mr. Ben- 
jamin some other little details as to her 
former life. ^Mr. Benjamin, whose very 
close attention had been drawn to the 
Eustace diamonds, had told Lord George 
how he had valued them at her ladyship’s 
request, and had caused an iron case to 
be made for them, and how her ladyship 
had on one occasion endeavored to sell 
the necklace to him. Mr. Benjamin, who 
certainly was intimate with Lord George, 
was very fond of talking about the dia- 
monds, and had oncfe suggested to his 
lordship that, were they to become his 
lordship’s by marriage, he, Benjamin, 
might be willing to treat with his lord- 
ship. In regard to treating with her 
ladyship, Mr. Benjamin acknowledged 
that he thought it would be too hazard- 
ous. Then came the robbery of the box, 
and Lord George was all astray. Mr. 
Benjamin was for a while equally astray, 
but neither friend believed in the other 
friend’s innocence. That Lord George 
should suspect Mr. Benjamin was quite 
natural. Mr. Benjamin hardly knew 


what to think ; hardly gave Lord George 
credit for the necessary courage, skill, 
and energy. But at last, as he began tc 
put two and two together, he divined the 
truth, and was enabled to set the docile 
Patience on the watch oyer her mistress’s 
belongings. So it had been with Mr. 
Benjamin, who at last was able to satisfy 
Mr. Smiler and Mr. Cann that he had 
been no party to their cruel disappoint- 
ment at Carlisle. How Lord George had 
learned the truth has been told ; the truth 
as to Lizzie’s hiding the necklace under 
her pillow and bringing it up to London 
in her desk. But of the facts of the sec- 
ond robbery he knew nothing up to this 
morning. lie almost suspected that Liz- 
zie had herself again been at work, and 
he was afraid of her. He had promised 
her that he would take care of her, had 
perhaps said enough to make her believe 
that some day he would marry her. lie 
hardly remembered what he had said; 
but he was afraid of her. She was so 
wonderfully clever that, if he did not take 
care, she would get him into some mess 
from which he would be unable to extri- 
cate himself. 

He had never whispered her secret to 
any one; and had still been at a loss 
about the second robbery, when he too 
saw the paragraph in the newspaper. 
He went direct to Scotland Yard and 
made inquiry there. His name had been 
so often used in the alfair, that such in- 
quiry from him was justified. “ Well, 
my lord ; yes ; we have found out some- 
thing,” said Bunfit. “ Mr. Benjamin Is 
off, you know.” 

“ Benjamin off? ” 

‘‘ Cut the painter, my lord, and started. 
But what’s the good, now we has the 
wires? ” 

” And who were the thieves?” 

“Ah, my lord, that’s telling. Per 
haps I don’t know. Perhaps I do. Per- 
haps two or three of us knows. You’ll 
hear all in good time, my lord.” Mr. 
Bunfit wished to appear communicative 
because he knew but little himself. Ga- 
ger, in the meanest possible manner, had 
kept the matter very close ; but the fact 
that Mr. Benjamin had started suddenly 
on foreign travel had become known to 
Mr. Bunfit. 

Lord George had been very careful, • 
asking no question about the necklace : 
no question which would have shown thr 


278 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Jie knew that the necklace had been in 
Hertford street when the robbery took 
place there; but it seemed to him now 
that the police must be aware that it was 
so. The arrest had been made because of 
the robbery in Hertford street, and be- 
cause of that arrest Mr. Benjamin had 
ttiken his departure. Mr. Benjamin was 
too big a man to have concerned himself 
deeply in the smaller matters which had 
then been stolen. 

From Scotland Yard Lord George went 
direct to Hertford street. He was in 
want of money, in want of a settled home, 
in W’ant of a future income, and altogether 
unsatisfied with his present mode of life. 
Lizzie Eustace, no doubt, wmuld take 
him, unless she had told her secret to 
some other lover. To have his wife, im- 
mediately on her marriage, or even before 
it, arraigned for perjuiy, would not be 
pleasant. There was very much in the 
whole afiair of which he would not be 
proud as he led his bride to the altar; 
but a man does not expect to get four 
thousand pounds a year for nothing. 
Lord George, at any rate, did not con- 
ceive himself to be in a position to do so. 
Had there not been something crooked 
about Lizzie, a screw loose, as people say, 
she would never have been within his 
reach. There are men who always ride 
lame horses, and yet see as much of the 
hunting as othere. Lord George, when 
he had begun to think that, after the 
tale which he had forced her to tell him, 
she had caused the diamonds to be stolen 
by her own maid out of her own desk, be- 
came almost afraid of her. But now, as 
he looked at the matter again and again, 
he believed that the second robbery had 
been genuine. He did not quite make up 
his mind, but he went to Hertford street 
resolved to see her. 

He asked for her, and was shown at 
once into her own sitting-room. ‘ ‘ So you 
have come at last,” she said. 

“ Yes ; I’ve come at last. It would not 
have done for me to come up to you when 
you were in bed. Those women down- 
stairs would have talked about it every- 
where.” 

“ I suppose they would,” said Lizzie 
almost piteously. 

“ It wouldn’t have been at all wise 
fter all that has been said. People 

■>uld have been sure to suspect that I 

\got the things out of 3 mur desk.” 


“ Oh, no ; not that.” 

“ I wasn’t going to run the risk, my 
dear.” His manner to her was anything 
but civil, anything but complimentary. 
If this was his Corsair humor, she was 
not sure that a Corsair might be agree- 
able to her. “ And now tell me what 
3 'ou know about this second robbery.” 

“ I know nothing. Lord George.” 

“Oh, yes, you do. You know some- 
thing. You know, at any rate, that the 
diamonds were there.” 

“ Yes ; I know that.” 

“ And that they were taken? ” 

“ Of course they were taken.” 

“ You are sure of that?” There was 
something in his manner absolutely inso- 
lent to her. Frank was aflectionate, and 
even Lord Fawn treated her with defer- 
ence. “ Because, yoti know, jmu have 
been very clever. To tell you the truth, 
I did not think at first that they had beeii 
reall}" stolen. It might, you know, have 
been a little game to get them out of your 
own hands, between you and your maid.” 

“ 1 don’t know what you take me for. 
Lord George.” 

“ I take you for a lady who for a long 
time got the better of the police and the 
magistrates, and who managed to shift 
all the trouble off your own shoulders on 
to those of other people. You have heard 
that they have taken one of the thieves? ” 

“ And they have got the girl.” 

“Have they? I didn’t know that. 
That scoundrel Benjamin has levanted 
too.” 

“ Levanted ! ” said Lizzie, raising both 
her hands. 

“ Not an hour too soon, my lady. And 
noAV what do you mean to do? ” 

“ \Yhat ought 1 to do? ” 

“ Of course the whole truth will come 
out.” 

“ Must it come out? ” 

“ Not a doubt of that. How can it be 
helped?” 

“You won’t tell. You promised that 
jmu would not.” 

“ Psha ; promised ! If they put me in a 
witness-box of course I must tell. When 
you come to this kind of work, promises 
don’t go for much. I don’t know that 
they ever do. What is a broken prom- 
isJ” 

“ It’s a story,” said Lizzie, in innocent 
amazement. 

“ And what was it you told when j’ou 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


270 


were upon your oath at Carlisle ; and 
again when the magistrate came here? ” 

“ Oh, Lord George ; how unkind you 
are to me ! ” 

“Patience Crabstick will tell it all, 
without any help from me. Don’t you 
see that the whole thing must be known ? 
She’ll say where the diamonds were 
found; and how did they come there, if 
you didn’t put them there? As for tell- 
ing, there’ll be telling enough. You’ve 
only two things to do.” 

“ What are they. Lord George? ” 

“Go off, like Mr. Benjamin; or else 
make a clean breast of it. Send for John 
Eustace and tell him the whole. For his 
brother’s sake he’ll make the bcvst of it. 
It will all be published, and then per- 
haps there will be an end of it.” 

“I couldn’t do that. Lord George,” 
said Lizzie, bursting into tears. 

“ You ask me, and I can only tell you 
what I think. That you should be able to 
keep the history of the diamonds a secret, 
does not seem to me to be upon the cards. 
No doubt people who are rich, and are 
connected with rich people, and have 
great friends — who are what the world 
call swells — have great advantages over 
their inferiors when the}^ get into trouble. 
You are the widow of a baronet, and j^ou 
have an uncle a bishop, and another a 
dean, and a countess for an aunt. You 
have a brother-in-law and a first-cousin in 
Parliament, and your father was an ad- 
miral. The other day you were engaged 
to marry a peer.” 

“ Oh yes,” said Lizzie, “ and Lady Glen- 
cora Palliser is my particular friend.” 

“ She is ; is she? So much the better. 
Lady Glencora, no doubt, is a very swell 
among swells.” 

“ The Duke of Omnium would do an}’- 
thing for me,” said Lizzie with enthusi- 
asm. 

“ If you were nobody, you would of 
course be indicted for perjury, and would 
go to prison. As it is, if you will tell all 
your story to one of your swell friends, I 
think it very likely that you may be pull- 
ed through. I should say that Mr. Eus- 
tace, or your cousin Greystock, would be 
the best.” 

“ Why couldn’t you do it? You know 
it all. I told you because — because — be- 
cause I thought you would be the kindest 
t> me.” 

“ You told me, my dear, because you 


thought it would not matter much with 
me, and I appreciate the compliment. I 
can do nothing for you. I am not near 
enough to those who wear wigs.” 

Lizzie did not above half undei*stand 
him — did not at all understand him when 
he spoke of those who wore wigs, and was 
quite dark to his irony, about her great 
friends — but she did perceive that he was 
in earnest in recommending her to Qon- 
fe.ss. She thought about it for a moment 
in silence, and the more she thought the 
more she felt that she could not do it. 
Had he not suggested a second alternative 
— that she should go ofi’, like Mr. Benja- 
min? It might be possible that she should 
go off, and yet be not quite like Mr. Ben- 
jamin. In that case ought she not to go 
under the protection of her Corsair? 
VYould not that be the proper way of go- 
ing? “ Might I not go abroad, just for a 
time?” she asked. 

“ And so let it blow' over? ” 

“ Just so, you know.” 

“ It is possible that you might,” he 
said. “ Not that it would blow over al- 
together. Everybody would know it. It 
is too late now to stop the police, and if 
you meant to be off you should be ofi’ at 
once — to-day or to-morrow.” 

“ Oh dear ! ” 

“ Indeed, there's no saying whether 
they will let you go. You could start 
nov^, this moment ; and if j'ou were at 
Dover could get over to France. But 
w'hen once it is known that you had the 
necklace all that time in your own desk, 
any magistrate, I imagine, could stop 
j'ou. You’d better have some law^^er you 
can trust; not that blackguard Mopus.” 

Lord George had certainly brought her 
no comfort. When he told her that she 
might go at once if she chose, she remem- 
bered, with a pang of agony, that she had 
already overdrawn her account at the 
bankers. She was the actual possessor of 
an income of four thousand pounds a year, 
and now,, in her terrible strait, she could 
not stir because she had not money with 
which to travel. Had all things been 
well with her, she eould, no doubt, have 
gone to her bankers and have arranged 
this little difficulty. But as it was she 
could not move, because her purse was 
empfy. 

Lord George sat looking at her and 
thinking w'hcther he would make the 
plunge and ask her to be his W'ife, with 


280 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


all her impediments and drawbacks about 
her. He had been careful to reduce her 
to such a condition of despair that she 
would undoubtedly have accepted him 
so that she might have some one to lean 
upon in her trouble ; but as he looked at 
her he doubted. She was such a mass of 
deceit that he "was afraid of her. She 
might say that she would marry him, and 
tiipn, when the storm was over, refuse to 
keep her word. She might be in debt al- 
most to any amount. She might be al- 
ready married for anything that he knew. 
He did know that she was subject to all 
manner of penalties for what she had 
done. He looked at her and told himself 
that she was very prett3^ But in spite of 
her beauty his judgment went against 
her. He did not dare to share his — even 
his boat, with so dangerous a fellow-pas- 
senger. “ That’s my advice,” he said, 
getting up from his chair. • 

“ Are you going?” 

“Well ; yes ; 1 don’t know what else 1 
can do for you.” 

“You are so unkind.” He shrugged 
his shoulders, just touched her hand, and 
left the room without saying another word 
to her V 


CHAPTER LXIV. 
lizzie’s last scheme. 

Lizzie, when she was left alone, was 
very angry with the Corsair — in truth 
more sincerely angry than she had ever 
been with any of her lovers, or perhaps 
with any human being. Sincere, true, 
burning wrath was not the fault to which 
she was most exposed. She could snap 
and snarl and hate, and say severe things. 
She could quarrel, and fight, and be ma- 
licious. But to be full of real wrath was 
uncommon with her. Now she was an- 
gry. She had been civil, more than civil, 
to Lord George. She had opened her 
house to him and her heart. She had told 
him her great secret. She had implored 
his protection. She had thrown herself 
into his arms. And now he had rejected 
her. That he should have been rough 
to her was only in accordance with the po- 
etical attributes which she had attributed 
to him. But his roughness should have 
been streaked with tenderness. He should 
not have left her roughly. In the whole 
interview he had not said a loving word to 
her He had given her advice — which 


might be good or bad — but he had given 
it as to one whom he despised. He had 
spoken to her throughout the interview 
exactly as he might have spoken to Sir 
GriflBn Tewett. She could not analyze 
her feelings thoroughly, but she felt that 
because of what had passed between them, 
by reason of his knowledge of her secret, 
he had robbed her of all that observance 
which was due to her as a woman and a 
lady. She had been roughly used before, 
by people of inferior rank who had seen 
through her ways. Andrew Gowran had 
insulted her. Patience Crabstick had ar- 
gued with her. Benjamin, the employer 
of thieves,, had been familiar with her 
But hitherto, in what she was pleased to 
call her own set, she had always been 
treated with that courtesy which ladies 
seldom fail to receive. She understood it 
all. She knew how much of mere word- 
service there often is in such complimen- 
tary usage. But, nevertheless, it implies 
respect and an acknowledgment of the 
position of her who is so respected. Lord 
George had treated her as one schoolboy 
treats another. 

And he had not sp>oken to her one word 
of love. Love will excuse roughness. 
Spoken love will palliate even spoken 
roughness. Had he once called her his 
own Lizzie, he might have scolded her as 
he pleased — might have abused her to the 
top of his bent. But as there had been 
nothing of the manner of a gentleman to 
a lady, so also had there ]>een nothing of 
the lover to his mistress. That dream was 
over. Lord George was no longer a Cor- 
sair, but a brute. 

But what should she do ? Even a brute 
may speak truth. She was to have gone 
to a theatre that evening with Mrs. Car- 
buncle, but she stayed at home thinking 
over her position. She heard nothing 
throughout the day from the police ; and 
she made up her mind that, unless she 
were stopped by the police, she would go 
to Scotland on the day but one following. 
She thought that she was sure that she 
would do so ; but of course she must be 
guided by events as they occurred. She 
wrote, however, to Miss Macnulty saying 
that she would come, and she told Mrs. 
Carbuncle of her proposed journey as that 
lady was leaving the house for the thea^ 
tre. On the following morning, however, 
news came which again made her journey 
doubtful. There was another paragraph 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


281 


in the newspaper about the robbery, ac- 
knowledging the former paragraph to 
have been in some respect erroneous. 
“The accomplislied housebreaker” had 
not been arrested. A confederate of the 
“ accomplished housebreaker ” was in the 
hands of the police, and the police were 
on the track of the “ accomplished house- 
breaker ” himself. Then there was a line 
or two alluding in a very mysterious way 
to the disappearance of a certain jeweller. 
Taking it altogether, Lizzie thought that 
there was ground for hope, and that at 
any rate there would be delay. She 
would perhaps put off going to Scotland 
for yet a day or two. Was it not necessa- 
ry that she should wait for Lord Fawn’s 
answer ; and would it not be incumbent 
on her cousin Frank to send her some ac- 
count of himself after the abrupt manner 
in which he had left her? 

If in real truth she should be driven to 
tell her story to any one, and she began to 
think that she was so driven, she would tell 
it to him. She believed more in his regard 
for her than that of any other human be- 
ing. She thought that he would in truth 
have been devoted to her, had he not be- 
come entangled with that wretched little 
governess. And she thought that if he 
could see his way out of that scrape, he 
would marry her even yet ; would marry 
her, and be good to her, so that her dream 
of a poetical phase of life should not be al- 
together dissolved. After all, the diamonds 
were her own. She had not stolen them. 
When perplexed in the extreme by magis- 
trates and policemen, with nobody near 
her whom she trusted to give her advice 
— for Lizzie now of course declared to 
herself that she had never for a moment 
trusted the Corsair — she had fallen into 
an error, and said what was not true. As 
she practised it before the glass, she 
thought that she could tell her story in a 
becoming manner, with becoming tears, 
to Frank Greystock. And were it not for 
Lucy Morris, she thought that he would 
take her with all her faults and all her 
burdens. 

As for Lord Fawn, she knew well enough 
that, let him write what he would, and 
renew his engagement in what most for- 
mal manner might be possible, he would 
be off again when he learned the facts as 
to that night at Carlisle. She had brought 
him to succumb, because he could no 
longer justify his treatment of her by ref- 


erence to the diamonds. Bat when once 
all the world should know that she had 
twice perjured herself, his justification 
would be complete and his escape would 
be certain. She would use his letter sim- 
ply to achieve that revenge which she had 
promised herself. Her effort — her last 
final effort — must be made to secure the 
hand and heart of her cousin Frank. 
“Ah, ’tis his heart I want,” she said to 
herself. 

She must settle something before she 
went to Scotland, if there was anything 
that could be settled. If she could only 
get a promise from Frank before all her 
treachery had been exposed, he probably 
would remain true to his promise. He 
would not desert her as Lord Fawn had 
done. Then, after much thinking of it, 
she resolved upon a scheme which, of all 
her schemes, was the wickedest. What- 
ever it might cost her, she would create a 
separation between Frank Greystock and 
Lucy Morris. Having determined upon 
this, she wrote to Lucy, asking her to call 
in Hertford street at a certain hour. 

“Dear Lucy: I particularly want to 
see you, on business. Pray come to me 
at twelve to-morrow. I will send the car- 
riage for you, and it will take you back 
again. Pray do this. We used to love 
one another, and I am sure I love you still. 

“ Your affectionate old friend, 

“ Lizzie,’ 

As a matter of course, Lucy went to 
her. Lizzie, before the interview, studied 
the part she was to play with all possible 
care, even to the words which she was to 
use. The greeting was a^ first kindly, for 
Lucy had almost forgotten the bribe that 
had been offered to her, and had quite for- 
given it. Lizzie Eustace never could be 
dear to her; but, so Lucy had thought 
during her happiness, this former friend 
of hers was the cousin of the man who 
was to be her husband, and was dear to 
him. Of course she had forgiven the of- 
fence. “ And now, dear, I want to ask 
you a question,” Lizzie said ; “ or rather, 
perhaps, not a question. I can do it bet- 
ter than that. I think that my cousin 
Frank once talked of — of making you his 
wife,” Lucy answered not a word, but 
she trembled in every limb, and the color 
came to her face. “ Was it not so, 
dear? ” 

“ What if it was? I don’t know why 


282 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


you liliould a^ik me any question like that 
about myself.” 

‘‘ Is he not my cousin? ” 

“Yes, he is your cousin. Why don’t 
you ask him? You see him every day, I 
suppose? ” 

“ Nearly every day.” 

“ Why do you send for me, then? ” 

“ It is so hard to tell you, Lucy. I have 
sent to you in good faith, and in love. I 
could ha-ve gone to you, only for the old 
vulture, who would not have let us had a 
word in peace. I do see him, constantly. 
And I love him dearly.” 

“ That is nothing to me,” said Lucy. 
Anybody hearing them, and not knowing 
them, would have said that Lucy’s man- 
ner was harsh in the extreme. 

“ He has told me everything.” Lizzie, 
when she said this, paused, looking at her 
victim. “ He has told me things which 
he could not mention to you. It was only 
yesterday — the day before yesterday — that 
he was speaking to me of his debts. I of- 
fered to place all that I have at his dispo- 
sal, so as to free him, but he would not 
take my money.” 

“ Of course he would not.” 

“ Not my money alone. Then he told 
me that he was engaged to you. He had 
never told me before, but j^et I knew it. It 
all came out then. Lucy, though he is 
engaged to you, it is me that he loves.” 

“ I don’t believe it,” said Lucy. 

“ Y’'ou can’t make me angry, Luc}', be- 
cause my heart bleeds for you.” 

“ Nonsense ! trash ! I don’t want your 
heart to bleed. I don’t believe you’ve 
got a heart. You’ve got money ; I know 
that.” 

‘ ‘ And he has got none. If I did not love 
him, why should I wish to give him all 
that I have ? Is not that disinterested?” 

“ No. You are always thinking of 
5'^ourself. You couldn’t be disinterested.” 

“ And of whom are you thinking? Are 
you doing the best for him — a man in his 
position, without money, ambitious, sure 
to succeed, if want of money does not stop 
him — in wishing him to marry a girl with 
nothing? Cannot I do more for him than 
you can?” 

“I could work for him on my knees, I 
love him so truly.” 

“ Would that do him any service ? He 
cannot marry you. Does he ever see you? 
Does he write to you as though you were 
to be his wife ? Do you not know that it 


is all over? — that it must be over? It 
is impossible that he should marry you. 
But if you will give him back his word, 
he shall be my husband, and shall have all 
that I possess. Now, let us see who loves 
him best.” 

“ I do,” said Lucy. 

“ How will you show it?” 

“ There is no need that I should show 
it. He knows it. The only one in the 
world to whom I wish it to be known, 
knows it already well enough. Did you 
send to me for this ?” 

“ Yes — for this.” 

“It is for him to tell me the tidings — 
not for you . You are nothing to me — no- 
thing. And what you say to me now is 
all for yourself— not for him. But it is 
true that he does not see me. It is true 
that he does not write to me. You may 
teil him from me — for I cannot write to 
him myself — that he may do whatever is 
best for him. But if you tell him that I 
do not love him better than all the world, 
you will lie to him. And if you say that 
he loves you better than he does me, that 
also will be a lie. 1 know his heart.” 

“ But, Lucy — ” 

“ I will hear no more. He can do as 
he pleases. If money be more to him than 
love and honesty, let him marry you. I 
shall never trouble him ; he may be sure 
of that. As for 5'ou, Lizzie, I hope that 
we may never meet again.” 

She Avould not get into the Eustace-Car- 
buncle carriage, which was waiting for 
her at the door, but walked back to Bru- 
ton street. She did not doubt but that it 
was all over with her now. That Lizzie 
Eustace was an inveterate liar, she knew 
well ; but she did believe that the liar had 
on this occasion been speaking truth. 
Lady Fawn was not a liar, and Lady Fawn 
had told her the same. x\nd, had she 
wanted more evidence, did not her lover’s 
conduct give it? “ It is because I am 
poor,” she said to herself — “for I know 
well that he loves me.” 


CHAPTER LXV. 

TRIBUTE. 

Lizzie put off her journey to Scotland 
from day to day, though her cousin Frank 
continually urged upon her the expediency 
of going. There were various reasons, he 
said, why she should go. Her cliild wa.s 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


283 


there, and it was proper that she should 
be with her child. She was living at pre- 
sent with people whose reputation did not 
stand high, and as to whom all manner 
of evil reports were flying about the town. 
It was generally thought — so said Frank — 
that that Lord George de Bruce Carruthers 
had assisted JNIr. Benjamin in stealing the 
diamonds, and Frank himself did not 
hesitate to express his belief in the accu- 
sation. “Oh no, that cannot be,” said 
Lizzie, trembling. But, though she re- 
jected the supposition, she did not reject 
it very firmly. “And then, you know,” 
continued Lizzie, “ I never see him. I 
have actually only set eyes on him once 
since the second robbery, and then just for 
a minute. Of course I used to know him 
— down at Portray — but now we are 
strangers.” Frank went on with his ob- 
jections. ' He declared that the manner in 
which Mrs. Carbuncle had got up the 
match between Lucinda Boanoakeand Sir 
GriflSn was shameful — all the world was 
declaring that it was shameful — that she 
had not a penny, that the girl was an ad- 
venturer, and that Sir Griffin was an ob- 
stinate, pig-headed, ruined idiot. It was 
expedient on every account that Lizzie 
should take herself away from that “ lot.” 
The answer that Lizzie desired to make 
was very simple. Let me go as your be- 
trothed bride, and I will start to-morrow 
to Scotland or elsewhere, as you may di- 
rect. Let that little affair be settled, and 
I shall be quite as willing to get out of 
London as you can be to send me. But I 
am in such a peck of troubles that Some- 
thing must be settled. And as it seems 
that after all the police are still astray 
about the necklace, perhaps I needn’t run 
away from them for a little while even 
3'et. She did not say this. She did not 
even in so many words make the first pro- 
position. But she did endeavor to make 
Frank understand that she would obey his 
dictation if he would earn the right to dic- 
tate. He either did not or would not un^^ 
derstand her, and then she became angry 
with him — or pretended to be angry. 
“Really, Frank,” she said, “you are 
hardly fair to me.” 

“ In what way am I unfair?” 

“ You come here and abuse all my 
friends, and tell me to go here and go 
there, just as though I were a child. And 
— and — and — ” 

“ And what, Lizzie?” 


“ You know what I mean. You are 
one thing one day, and one another. I 
hope Miss Lucy Morris was quite well 
when you last heard from her?” 

“ You have no right to speak to me of 
Luc}^ — at least, not in disparagement.” 

“ You are treating her very badly — you 
know that.” 

“ I am.” 

“Then why don’t you give it up? Why 
don’t you let her have her chances — to do 
what she can with them? You know very 
well that you can’t marry her. Y'ou know 
that you ought not to have asked her. 
You talk of Miss Roanoke and Sir Griffin 
Tewett. There are people quite as bad 
as Sir Griffin, or ^Irs. Carbuncle either. 
Don’t suppose I am speaking for myself. 
I’ve given up all that idle fancy long ago. 
I shall never marry a second time myself. 
I have made up my mind to that. I have 
suffered too much already.” Then she 
burst into tears. 

He dried her tears and comforted her, 
and forgave all the injurious things she 
had said of him. It is almost impossible 
for a man — a man under forty and unmar- 
ried, and who is not a philosopher — to 
have familiar and affectionate intercourse 
with a beautiful young woman, and carry 
it on as he might do with a friend of the 
other sex. In his very heart Greystock 
despised this woman ; he had told himself 
over and over again that were there no 
Lucy in the case he would not marry her ; 
that she was afiected, unreal — and in fact 
a liar in every word and look and motion 
which came from her with premeditation. 
Judging, not from her own account, but 
from circumstances as he saw them, and 
such evidence as had reached him, he did 
not condemn her in reference to the dia- 
monds. He had never for a moment con- 
ceived that she had secreted them. He 
acquitted her altogether from those special 
charges which had been widely circulated 
against her ; but nevertheless he knew her 
to be heartless and bad. He had told him- 
self a dozen times that it would be well 
for him that she should be married and 
taken out of his hands. And yet he loved 
her after a fashion, and was prone to sit 
near her, and was fool enough to be flat- 
tered by her caresses. When she would 
lay her hand on his arm, a thrill of pleas- 
ure went through him. And yet he 
would willingly have seen any decent man 
take her and marry her, m.aking a bargain 


284 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


tliat he should never see her again. 
Young or old, men are apt to become 
Merlins when they encounter Viviens. On 
this occasion he left her, disgusted indeed, 
but not having told her that he was dis- 
gusted . ‘ ‘ Come again , Frank , to-morrow , 
won’t you ?” she said. He made her no 
promise as he Avent, nor had she expected 
it. He had left her quite abruptly the 
other day, and he now went away almost 
in the same fashion. But she was not 
surprised . She -understood that the task 
she had in hand was one very difficult to 
be accomplished — and she did perceive in 
some dark way that, good as her acting 
was, it Avas not quite good enough. Lucy 
held her ground because she Avas real. 
You may knock about a diamond and not 
even scratch it, whereas paste m rough 
usage betrays itself. Lizzie, with all her 
self-assuring protestations, knew that she 
Avas paste, and knew that Lucy was real 
stone. Why could she not force herself to 
act a little better, so that the paste might 
be as good as the stone — might at least 
seem to be as good? “If he despises me 
noAV ; what Avill he say when he finds it 
all out? ” she asked herself. 

As for Frank Greystock himself, though 
he had quite made up his mind about 
Lizzie Eustace, he wasstill in doubt about 
the other girl. At the present moment he 
was making over two thousand pounds a 
year, and yet was more in debt noAV than 
he had been a year ago. VVTien he at- 
tempted to look at his affairs, he could 
not even remember what had become of 
his money. He did not gamble. He had 
no little yacht, costing him about six hun- 
dred a year. He kept one horse in Lon- 
don, and one only. He had no house. 
And Avhen he could spare time from his 
work, he was generally entertained at the 
houses of his friends. And yet from day 
to day his condition seemed to become 
worse and worse. It Avas true that he 
never thought of half-a-sovereign ; that in 
calling for Avine at his club he was never 
influenced by the cost ; that it' seemed to 
him quite rational to keep a cab waiting 
for him half the day, that in going or com- 
ing he never calculated expense, that in 
giving an order to a tailor he never dreamed 
ofanything beyond his own comfort. Nev- 
ertheless, when he recounted with pride his 
great economies, reminding himself that 
he, a successful man, with a large income 
and no family, kept neither hunters, nor 


yacht, nor moor, and that he did not gam- 
ble, he did think it very hard that he 
should be embarrassed. But he w^as em- 
barrassed, and in that condition could it 
be right for him to marry a girl Avithout 
a shilling ? 

In these days Mrs. Carbuncle was very 
urgent with her friend not to leave Lon- 
don till after the marriage. Lizzie had 
given no promise, had only been induced 
to promise that the loan of one hun- 
dred and fifty pounds should not be 
held to have any bearing on the wedding 
present to be made to Lucinda. That 
could be got on credit from Messrs. Har- 
ter and Benjamin ; for though Mr. Ben- 
jamin Avas absent — on a little tour through 
Europe in search of precious stones in the 
cheap markets old Mr. Harter suggested 
— the business went on the same as ever. 
There Avas a good deal of consultation 
about the present, and Mrs. Carbuncle at 
last decided, no doubt with the concur- 
rence of Miss Roanoke, that it should 
consist simply of silver forks and spoons — 
real silver as far as the money would go. 
Mrs. Carbuncle herself went Avith he? 
friend to select the articles — as to which 
perhaps we shall do her no injustice in 
saying that a ready sale, should such a 
lamentable occun'ence ever become nec- 
essary, was one of the objects which she 
had in view. Mrs. Carbuncle’s investi- 
gations as to the quality of the metal 
quite won Mr. Harter’s respect ; and it 
will probably be thought that she exacted 
no more than justice — seeing that the 
thing had become a matter of bargain — 
in demanding that the thirty-five pounds 
should be stretched to fifty, because the 
things were bought on long credit. “ My 
dear Lizzie,” Mrs. Carbuncle said, “ the 
dear girl Avon’t have an ounce more than 
she Avould have got, had you gone into 
another sort of shop with thirty-five sov- 
ereigns in your hand.” Lizzie groAvled, 
but Mrs. Carbuncle’s final argument was 
conclusive. “ I’ll tell you Avhat we’ll 
do,” said she ; “ we’ll take thirty pounds 
doAvn in ready money.” There was no 
ansAver to be made to so reasonable a prop- 
osition. 

The presents to be made to Lucinda 
were very much thought of in Hertford 
street at this time, and Lizzie — independ- 
ently of any feeling that she might have 
as to her own contribution — did all she 
could to assist the collection of tribute. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


286 


It was quite understood that as a girl can 
only be married once — for a widow’s 
chance in such matters amounts to but 
little — everything should be done to gath- 
er toll from the tax-payers of societ3^ It 
wasvquite fair on such an occasion that 
men should be given to understand that 
something worth having was expected — 
no trumpery thirty-shilling piece of crock- 
ery, no insignificant glass bottle, or fan- 
tastic paper-knife of no real value what- 
ever, but got up just to put money into 
the tradesmen’s hands. To one or two 
elderly gentlemen upon whom Mrs. Car- 
buncle had smiled, she ventured to sug- 
gest in plain words that a check was the 
most convenient cadeau. “ What do you 
say to a couple of sovereigns?” one sar- 
castic old gentleman replied, upon whom 
probably Mrs. Carbuncle had not smiled 
enough. She laughed and congratulated 
her sarcastic friend upon his joke — but 
the two sovereigns were left upon the 
table, and went to swell the spoil. 

“ You must do something handsome for 
Lucinda,” Lizzie said to her cousin. 

“ What do you call handsome ?” 

‘ ‘ You are a bachelor and a Member of 
Parliament. Say fifteen pounds.” 

“ 111 be if I do,” said Frank, who 

was beginning to be very much disgust- 
ed with the house in Hertford street. 
“ There’s a five-pound note, and j^ou may 
do what you please with it. ’ ’ Lizzie gave 
over the five-pound note — the identical 
bit of paper that had come from Frank ; 
and Mrs. Carbuncle, no doubt, did do 
what she pleased with jt. 

There was almost a quarrel because 
Lizzie, after much consideration, declared 
that she did not see her way to get a pres- 
ent from the Duke of Omnium. She had 
talked so much to Mrs. Carbuncle about 
the duke that Mrs. Carbuncle was almost 
justified in making the demand. “It 
isn’t the value, you know,” said Mrs. 
Carbuncle ; “ neither I nor Lucinda would 
think of that ; but it would look so well 
to have the dear duke’s name on some- 
thing.” Lizzie declared that the duke 
was- unapproachable on such subjects. 
“There j^ou’r-e wrong,” said Mrs. Car- 
buncle. “ I happen to know there is 
nothing his grace likes so much as giving 
wedding presents.” This was the harder 
upon Lizzie as she actually did succeed in 
.saying such kind things about Lucinda 
that Lady Glencora sent Miss Roanoke the 


prettiest smelling-bottle in the world. 
“ You don’t mean to say you’ve given a 
present to the future Lady Tewett? ” said 
Mme. Max Goesler to her friend. “ Why 
not? Sir Griffin can’t hurt me. When 
one begins to be good-natured why 
shouldn’t one be good-natured all round ? ” 
Mme. IMax remarked that it might per- 
haps be preferable to put an end to good- 
nature altogether. “There I dare say 
you’re right, my dear,” said Lady Glen- 
cora. “ I’ve long felt that making pres- 
ents means nothing. Only if one has a 
lot of money and people like it, why 
shouldn’t one? I’ve made so many to 
people I hardly ever saw, that one more to 
Lady Tewett can’t hurt.” 

Perhaps the most wonderful affair in 
that campaign was the spirited attack 
which Mrs. Carbuncle made on a certain 
Mrs. Hanbury Smith, who for the last six 
or seven years had not been among Mrs. 
Carbuncle’s more intimate friends. Mrs. 
Hanbury Smith lived with her husband in 
Paris, but before her marriage had known 
Mrs. Carbuncle in London. Her father, 
Mr. Bunbury Jones,, had from certain 
causes chosen to show certain civilities to 
Mrs. Carbuncle just at the period of Ills 
daughter’s marriage, and Mrs. Carbuncle, 
being perhaps at that moment well sup- 
plied with ready money, had presented a 
marriage present. From that to this 
present day Mrs. Carbuncle had seen 
nothing of Mrs. Hanbury Smith nor of 
Mr. Bunbury Jones, but she was not the 
woman to waste the return value of such 
a transaction. A present so given was 
seed sown in the earth — seed, indeed, that 
could not be expected to give back twen- 
ty-fold, or even ten-fold,, but still seed 
from which a crop should be expected. So 
she wrote to Mrs. Hanbury Smith explain- 
ing that her darling niece Lucinda was 
about to be married to Sir Griffin Tewett, 
and that, as she had no child of her 
ow'n, Lucinda was the same to her as a 
daughter. And then, lest there might be 
any want of comprehension, she expressed 
her own assurance that her friend would 
be glad to have an opportunity of recipro- 
cating the feelings which had been evinced 
on the occasion of her own marriage. “It 
is no good mincing matters nowadays,” 
Mrs. Carbuncle would have said, had any 
friend pointed out to her that she was 
taking strong measures in the exaction of 
toll. “ Peoole have tome to understand 


2b6 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


that a spade is a spade, and £10 £10,” 
she would have said. Had Mrs. Hanbury 
Smith not noticed the application, there 
might perhaps have been an end of it, 
but she was silly enough to send over 
from Paris a little trumpery bit of finery, 
bought in the Palais Royal for ten francs. 
Whereupon Mrs. Carbuncle wrote the 
following letter : 

“ My Dear Mrs. Hanbury Smith : Lu- 
cinda has received your little brooch, and 
is much obliged to you for thinking of 
her; but you must remember that when 
you were married I sent you a bracelet 
which cost £10. If I had a daughter of 
my own I should, of course, expect that 
she would reap the benefit of this on her 
marriage, and my niece is the same to me 
as a daughter. I think that this is quite 
understood now among people in society. 
Lucinda will be disappointed much if you 
do not send her what she thinks she has a 
right to expect. Of course you can deduct 
the brooch if you please. 

“ Yours, very sincerel}", 

“Jane Carbuncle.” 

Mr. Hanbury Smith was something of a 
wag, and caused his wife to write back as 
follows : 

vr 

“Dear Mrs. Carbuncle: I quite ac- 
knowledge the reciprocity s^^stem, but 
don’t think it extends to descendants, cer- 
tainly not to nieces. I acknowledge, too, 
the present quoted at £10. I thought it 
had been £7 10s. ’ ’ — ‘ ‘ The nasty mean crea- 
ture,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, when showing 
die correspondence to Lizzie, “ must have 
been to the tradesman to inquire ! The 
price named was £10, but I got £2 10s. 
off for ready money ” — “At your second 
marriage I will do what is needful ; but I 
can assure you 1 haven’t recognized nieces 
with any of my friends. 

“ Yours, very truly, 

“Caroline Hanbury Smith.” 

The correspondence was carried no fur- 
ther, for not even can a Mrs. Carbuncle 
exact payment of such a debt in any es- 
tablished court ; but she inveighed bitter- 
ly against the meanness of Mrs. Smith, 
telling the story openly, and never feeling 
that she had told it against herself. In 
her set it was generally thought that she 
had done quite right. 

She managed better with old Mr. Cabob, 


who had certainly received many of Mrs 
Carbuncle’s smiles, and who was very 
rich. Mr. Cabob did as he was desired, 
and sent a check — a check for £20 ; and 
added a message that he hoped Miss Roa- 
noke would buy with it some little thing 
that she liked. Miss Roanoke, or her aunt 
for her, liked a thirty guinea ring, and 
bought it, having the bill for the balance 
sent up to Mr. Cabob. Mr. Cabob, who 
probably knew that he must pay well for 
his smiles, never said anything about it. 

Lady Eustace went into all this work, 
absolutely liking it. She had felt nothing 
of anger even as regarded her own contri- 
bution, much as she had struggled to re- 
duce the amount. People, she felt, ought 
to be sharp ; and it was nice to look at 
pretty things, and to be cunning about 
them. She would have applied to the 
Duke of Omnium had she dared, and was 
very triumphant when she got the smell- 
ing-bottle from Lady Glencora. But Lu- 
cinda herself took no part whatever in all 
these things. Nothing that Mrs. Carbun- 
cle could say would induce her to take any 
interest in them, or even in the trousseau, 
which, without reference to expense, was 
being supplied chiefly on the very indif- 
ferent credit of Sir Griffin. What Lucin- 
da had to say about the matter was said 
solely to her aunt. Neither Lady Eustace, 
nor Lord George, nor even the maid who 
dressed her, heard any of her complaints. 
But complain she did, and that with ter- 
rible energy. “ What is the use of it, 
Aunt Jane? I shall never have a house 
to put them into.” 

“What nonsen.se, my dear! Why 
shouldn’t you have a house as well as 
others?” 

“ And if I had, I should never care for 
them. I hate them. What does Lady 
Glencora Palliser or Lord Pawn care for 
me ? ” Even Lord Fawn had been put un- 
der requisition, and had sent a little box 
full of stationery. 

“ They are worth money, Lucinda ; and 
when a girl marries she alwaj^s gets 
them.” 

“ Yes ; and when they come from peo- 
ple who love her, and who pour them into 
her lap with kisses, because she has given 
herself to a man she loves, then it must 
be nice. Oh, if I were marrying a poor 
man, and a poor friend had given me a 
gridiron to help me to cook my husband’s 
dinner, how I could have valued it ! ” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


287 


“ I don’t know that you like poor things 
and poor people better than anybody else,” 
said Aunt Jane. 

“I don’t like anything or anybody,” 
said Lucinda. 

“You had better take the good things 
that come to you, then ; and not grumble. 
lIoAV I have worked to get all this ar- 
ranged for you, and now what tha’nks 
have I?” 

“ You’ll find you have worked for very 
little. Aunt Jane. I shall never marry the 
man yet.” This, however, had been said 
so often that Aunt Jane thought nothing 
of the threat. 


CHAPTER LXYl. 

THE ASPIRATIONS OF MR. EMILIUS. 

It was acknowledged by Mrs. Carbuncle 
very freely that in the matter of tribute 
no one behaved better than Mr. Emilius, 
the fashionable, foreign, ci-devant Jevf 
preacher, who still drew great congrega- 
tions in the neighborhood of Mrs. Car- 
buncle’s house. Mrs. Carbuncle, no 
doubt, attended regularly at Mr. Emilius’s 
church, and had taken a sitting for thir- 
teen Sunday’s at something like ten shil- 
lings a Sunday. But she had not as yet 
paid the money, and Mr. Emilius was well 
aware that if his tickets were not paid for 
in advance, there would be considerable 
defalcations in liLs income. He was, as a 
rule, very particular as to such payments, 
and would not allow a name to be put on 
a sitting till the money had reached his 
pockets; but with Mrs. Carbuncle he had 
descended to no such commercial accuracy. 
Mrs. Carbuncle had seats for three — for 
one of which Lady Eustace paid her share 
in advance — in the midst of the very best 
pews in the most conspicuous part of the 
house, and hardly a word had been said 
to her about the money. And now there 
came to them from Mr. Emilius the pret- 
.tiest little gold salver that ever was seen. 
“ I send Messrs. Clerico’s docket,” wrote 
Mr. Emilius, “ as Miss Roanoke may like 
to know the quality of the metal.” “Ah,” 
.said Mrs. Carbuncle, inspecting the little 
dish and putting two and two together ; 
“ he’s got it cheap, no doubt, at the place 
where they commLssioned him to buy the 
plate and candlesticks for the church ; but 
at £3 16s. 3d. the gold is worth nearly 
twenty pounds.” Mr. Emilius no doubt 
had had his outing in the autumn through 


the instrumentality of Mrs. Carbuncle’s 
kindness ; but that Avas past and gone, 
and such lavish gratitude for a past favor 
could hardly be expected from Mr. Emilius. 
“I’ll be hanged if he isn’t after Portray 
Castle,” said Mrs. Carbuncle to herself. 

Poor Emilius was after Portray Castle 
and had been after Portray Castle in a si 
lent, not very confident, but yet not alto 
gether hopeless manner ever since he had 
seen the glories of that place and learned 
something of truth as to th/e widow’s in- 
come. Mrs. Carbuncle was led to her con- 
clusion not simply by the Avedding present, 
but in part also by the diligence displayed 
by Mr. Emilius in removing the doubts 
which had got abroad respecting his con- 
dition in life. He assured Mrs. Carbun- 
cle that he had never been married. 
Shortly after his ordination, which had 
been efiected under the hands of that 
great and good man the late Bishop of 
Jerusalem, he had taken to liA'e Avith him 
a lady Avho AAms — Mrs. Carbuncle did not 
quite recollect Avho the lady Avas, but re- 
membered that she Avas connected in some 
AA'ay with a step-mother of Mr. Emilius 
Avho liA'ed in Bohemia. This lady had 
for awhile kept hou.se for Mr. Emilius ; 
but ill-natured things had been said, and 
Mr. Emilius, having respect to his cloth, 
had sent the poor lady back to Bohemia. 
The consequence was that he now lived 
in a solitude which was absolute and, as 
Mr. Emilius added, somewhat melan- 
choly. All this Mr. Emilius explained 
very full3% not to Lizzie herself, but to 
Mrs. Carbuncle. If Lady Eustace chose 
to entertain .such a suitor, Avhy should he 
not come? It was nothing to Mrs. Car- 
buncle. 

Lizzie laughed when she was told that 
she might add the reverend gentleman to 
the list of her admirers. “ Don’t you 
remember,” she said, “ hoAV we used to 
chaff Miss Macnulty about him? ” 

“ I knew better than that,” replied 
Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ There is no saying Avhat a man may 
be after,” said Lizzie. “I didn’t know 
but what he might haA'e thought that 
Macnulty’s connection would increase his 
congregation.” 

“ He’s after you, my dear, and j’our in- 
come. He can manage a congregation 
for himself.” 

Lizzie Avas very civil to him, but it 
would be unjust to her to say that she 


288 


THE EUSTACE DIAISIONDS. 


gave liim any encouragement. It is quite 
the proper thing for a lady to be on inti- 
mate, and even on aflFectionate terms 
with her favorite clergyman, and Lizzie 
certainly had intercourse with no clergy- 
man who w'as a greater favorite with her 
than Mr. Emilius. She had a dean for 
an uncle, and a bishop for an uncle-in- 
law ; but she was at no pains to hide her 
contempt for these old fogies of the 
church. “ They preach now and then in 
the cathedral,” she said to Mr. Emilius, 
“ and everybody takes the opportunity of 
going to sleep.” Mr. Emilius was very 
much amused at this description of the 
eloquence of the dignitaries. It was 
quite natural to him that people should 
go to sleep in church who take no trouble 
in seeking eloquent preachers. “Ah,” 
he said, “ the church in England, which 
is my church, the church which I love, 
is beautiful. She is as a maiden, all 
glorious with fine raiment. But, alas, 
she is mute. She does not sing. She has 
no melody. But the time cometh in 
w'hich she shall sing. I, myself, I am a 
poor singer in the great choir.” In say- 
ing which Mr. Emilius no doubt intended 
to allude to his eloquence as a preacher. 

He was a man who could listen as well 
as sing, and he was very careful to hear 
well that which was being said in public 
about Lady Eustace and her diamonds. 
He had learned thoroughly wLat was her 
condition in reference to the Portray 
estate, and was rejoiced rather than other- 
wise to find that she enjoyed only a life- 
interest in the property. Had the thing 
been better than it was, it would have 
been the further removed from his reach. 
And in the same way, when rumors 
reached him prejudicial to Lizzie in re- 
spect of the diamonds, he perceived that 
such prejudice might work weal for him. 
A gentleman once, on ordering a mack- 
erel would come to a shilling. He could 
have a stale mackerel for sixpence. ‘ ‘ Then 
bring me a stale mackerel,” said the gen- 
tleman. Mr. Emilius coveted fish, but 
was aware that his position did not justify 
him in expecting the best fish in the 
market. The Lord Fawns and the Frank 
Glreystocks of the world -would be less 
likely to covet Lizzie, should she by any 
little indiscretion have placed herself 
under a temporary cloud. Mr. Emilius 
had carefully observed the heavens, and 
knew how quickly such clouds will dis- 


perse themselves when they are tinged 
with gold. There was nothing which 
Lizzie had done, or would be likely to do, 
which could materially affect her income. 
It might indeed be possible that the Eus- 
taces should make her pay for the neck- 
lace ; but, even in that case there would 
be quite enough left for that modest, un- 
ambitious comfort which Mr. Emilius de- 
sired. It was by preaching, and not by 
wealth, that he must make himself known 
in the world ! but for a preacher to have 
a pretty wife with a title and a good in- 
come, and a castle in Scotland, what an 
Elysium it would be ! In such a condition 
he would envy no dean, no bishop, no arch- 
bishop ! He thought a great deal about 
it, and saw no positive bar to his success. 

She told that him she was going to Scot- 
land. 

“ Not immediately ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ My little boy is there,” she said. 

“ But why should not your little boy be 
be here?- Surely for people who can 
choose, the great centre of the world of- 
fers attractions which cannot be found in 
secluded spots.” 

“ I love seclusion,” said Lizzie with 
rapture. 

“Ah, yes; I can believe that.” Mr. 
Emilius had himself witnessed the seclu- 
sion of Portray Castle, and had heard, 
when there, many stories of the Ayrshire 
hunting. “It is your nature— but, dear 
Lady Eustace, -\;\’ill you allow me to say 
that our nature is implanted in us in ac- 
cordance with the Fall ? ” 

“ Do you mean to say that it is Avicked 
to like to be in Scotland better than in this 
giddy town? ” 

“ I say nothing about wicked. Lady 
Eustace ; but this I do say, that nature 
alone will not lead us always aright. It 
is good to be at Portray part of the year, 
no doubt ; but are there not blessings in 
such a congregation of humanity as this 
London which you cannot find at Por-, 
tray ? ” 

“ I can hear you preach, Mr. Emilius, 
certainly.” 

“I hope that is something, too, Lady 
Eustace ; otherwise a great many people 
who kindly come to hear me must sadly 
waste their time. And your example to 
the world around ; is it not more service- 
able amidst the crowds of London than in 
the solitudes of Scotland ? There is more 
good to be done, Lady Eustace, by living 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


289 


among our fellow creatures than by desert- 
ing them. Therefore I think you should 
not go to Scotland before August, but 
should have your little boy brought to you 
here.” 

“ The air of his native mountains is ev- 
erything to my child,” said Lizzie. The 
child had in fact been born at Bobsbor- 
ough, but that probably would make no 
real difference. 

“You cannot wonder that I should 
plead for your stay,” said Mr. Emilius, 
throwing all his soul into his eyes. “ How 
dark would everything be to me if I missed 
you from your seat in the house of praise 
and prayer ! ” 

Lizzie Eustace, like some other ladies 
who ought to be more appreciative, was 
altogether deficient in what may per- 
haps be called good taste in reference to 
men. Though she was clever, and though 
in spite of her ignorance she at once knew 
an intelligent man from a fool, she did not 
know the difference between a gentleman 
and a — ‘‘ cad.” It was in her estimation 
something against Mr. Emilius that he 
was a clergyman, something against him 
that he had nothing but what he earned, 
something against him that he was sup- 
posed to be a renegade Jew, and that no- 
body knew whence he came nor who he 
was. These deficiencies or drawbacks 
Lizzie recognized. But it was nothing 
against him in her judgment that he was 
a greasy, fawning, pawing, creeping, 
black-browed rascal, who could not look 
her full in the face, and whose every word 
sounded like a lie. There was a twang in 
his voice which ought to have told her 
that he was utterly untrustworthy. There 
was an oily pretence at earnestness in his 
manner which ought to have told that he 
was not fit to associate with gentlemen. 
There was a foulness of demeanor about 
him which ought to have given to her, as 
a woman at any rate brought up among 
ladies, an abhorrence of his society. But 
all this Lizzie did not feel. She ridiculed 
to Mrs. Carbuncle the idea of the preach- 
er’s courtship. She still thought that in 
the teeth of all her misfortunes she could 
do better with herself than marry Mr. 

' Emilius. She conceived that the man 
must be impertinent if Mrs. Carbuncle’s 
assertion were true ; but she was neither 
angry nor disgusted, and she allowed him 
to talk to her, and even to make love to 
her, after his nasty pseudo-clerical fashion. 
19 


She could surely still do better with 
herself than marry Mr. Emilius ! It was 
now the twentieth of March, and a fort- 
night had gone since an intimation had 
been sent to her from the headquartei-s of 
the police that Patience .Crabstick was in 
their hands. Nothing further had oc- 
curred, and it might be that Patience 
Crabstick had told no tale against her. 
She could not bring herself to believe that 
Patience had no tale to tell, but it might 
be that Patience, though she was in the 
hands of the police, would find it to her 
interest to tell no tale against her late mis- 
tress. At any rate there was silence and 
quiet, and the affair of the diamonds 
seemed almost to be passing out of peo- 
ple’s minds. Greystock had twice called 
in Scotland Yard, but had been able’ to 
learn nothing. It was feared, they said, 
that the people really engaged in the rob- 
bery had got away scot-free. Frank did 
not quite believe them, but he could learn 
nothing from them. Thus encouraged, 
Lizzie determined that she would remain 
in London till after Lucinda’s marriage, 
till after she should have received the 
promised letter from Lord Fawn, as to 
which, though it was so long in coming, 
she did not doubt that it would come at 
last. She could do nothing with Frank, 
who was a fool ! She could do nothing 
with Lord George, who was a brute ! 
Lord Fawn would still be within her reach, 
if only the secret about the diamonds 
could be kept a secret till after she should 
have become his wife. 

About this time Lucinda spoke to her 
respecting her proposed journey. “ You 
were talking of going to Scotland a week 
ago, Lady Eustace.” 

“ And am still talking of it.” 

“ Aunt Jane says that you are waiting 
for my wedding. It is very kind of you, 
but pray don’t do that.” 

“ I shouldn’t think of going now till 
after your marriage. It only wants ten or 
twelve days.” 

“ I count them. I know how many days 
it wants. It may want more than that.” 

“You can’t put it off now, I should 
think,” said Lizzie ; “ and as I have or- 
dered my dress for the occasion I shall cer- 
tainly stay and wear it.” 

“lam very sorry for your dress. I am 
very sorry for it all. Do you know ; I 
sometimes think I shall — murder him.” 

“ Lucinda, how can you say anything 


290 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


so horrible ! But I see you are only jok- 
ing.” There did come a ghastly smile 
over that beautiful face, which was so sel- 
dom lighted up by any expression of mirth 
or good humor. “ But I wish you would 
not say such horrible things.” 

“ It would serve him right; and if he 
were to murder me that would serve me 
right. He knows that I detest him, and 
yet he goes on with it. I have told him so 
a score of times, but nothing will make 
him give it up. It is not that he loves 
me, but he thinks that that will be his 
triumph.” 

“Why don’t you give it up if it makes 
you unhappy?” 

“ It ought to come from him, ought it 
not?” 

“ I don’t see why,” said Lizzie. 

“He is not bound to anybody as I am 
bound to my aunt. No one can have ex- 
acted an oath from him. Lady Eustace, 
you don’t quite understand how we are 
situated. I wonder whether you would 
take the trouble to be good to me? ” 

Lucinda Roanoke had never asked a fa- 
vor of her before ; had never, to Lizzie’s 
knowledge, asked a favor of any one. “ In 
what way can I be good to you?” she 
said. 

“ Make him give it up. You may tell 
him what you like of me. Tell him that 
I shall only make him miserable, and 
more despicable than he is ; that I shall 
never be a good wife to him. Tell him 
that I am thoroughly bad, and that he 
will repent it to the last day of his life. 
Say whatever you like, but make him give 
it up.” 

“ When everything has been pre- 
pared ! ” 

“ What does all that signify compared 
to a life of misery? Lady Eustace, I 
really think that I should — kill him, if he 
were — were my husband.” Lizzie at last 
said that she would at any rate speak to 
Sir Griffin. 

And she did speak to Sir Griffin, having 
waited three or four days to do so. There 
had been some desperately sharp words 
between Sir Griffin and Mrs. Carbuncle 
with reference to money. Sir Griffin had 
been given to understand that Lucinda 
had, or would have, some few hundred 
pounds, and insisted that the money 
should be handed over to him on the day 
of his marriage. Mrs. Carbuncle had de- 
clared that the money was to come from 


property to be realized in New York, and 
had named a day which had seemed to Sir 
Griffin to be as the Greek Kalends. He 
expressed an opinion that he was swin- 
dled, and Mrs. Carbuncle, unable to re- 
strain herself, had turned upon him full 
of wrath. He was caught by Lizzie as he 
was descending the stairs, and in the din- 
ing-room he poured out the tale of his 
wrongs. “ That woman doesn’t know 
what fair dealing means,” said he. 

“ That’s a little hard, Sir Griffin, isn’t 
it?” said Lizzie. 

“ Not a bit. A trumpery six hundred 
pounds ! And she hasn’t a shilling of for- 
tune, and never will have, beyond that ! 
No fellow ever was more generous or more 
foolish than I have been.” Lizzie, as she 
heard this, could not refrain from thinking 
of the poor departed Sir Florian. “ 1 
didn’t look for fortune, or say a word 
about money, as almost ever^Mnan does, 
but just took her as she was. And now 
she tells me that I can’t have just the bit 
of money that I wanted for our tour. It 
would serve them both right if I were to 
give it up.” 

“Why don’t you?” said Lizzie. He 
looked quickly, sharply, and closely into 
her face as she asked the question. “1 
would, if I thought as you do.” 

“ And lay myself in for all manner of 
damages,” said Sir Griffin. 

“ There wouldn’t be anything of that 
kind, I’m sure. You see the truth is, you 
and Miss Roanoke are always having — 
having little tifife together. I sometimes 
think you don’t really care a bit for her.” 

“ It’s the old woman I’m complaining 
of,” said Sir Griffin, “ and I’m not going 
to marry her. I shall have seen the last 
of her when I get out of the church. Lady 
Eustace.” 

“ Do you think she wishes it? ” 

“Who do you mean?” asked Sir 
Griffin. 

u Why— Lucinda?” 

“ Of course she does. Where’d she be 
now if it wasn’t to go on? I don’t be- 
lieve they’ve money enough between them 
to pay the rent of the house they’re living 
in.” 

“ OR course I don’t want to make diffi- 
culties, Sir Griffin, and no doubt the affair 
has gone very far now. But I really think 
Lucinda would consent to break it off if 
you wish it. I have never thought that 
you were really in love with her.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


291 


He agiiiii looked at her very sharply and 
very closely. “Has slie sent you to say 
all this?” 

“Has who sent me? Mrs. Carbuncle 
didn’t.” 

■ “ But Lucinda? ” 

She paused a moment before she replied, 
but she could not bring herself to be ab- 
solutely honest in the matter. “ No ; she 
didn’t send me. But from what 1 see and 
hear, I am quite sure she does not wish to 
go on with it.” 

“ Then she shall go on with it,” said 
Sir Griffin. “I’m not going to be made a 
fool of in that way. She shall go on with 
it, and the first thing I mean to tell her 
as my wife is, that she shall never see that 
woman again. If she thinks she’s going 
to be master, she’s very much mistaken.” 
Sir Griffin, as he said this, showed his 
teeth, and declared his purpose to be mas- 
terful by his features as well as by his* 
words ; but Lady Eustace was neverthe- 
less of opinion that when the two came 
to an absolute struggle for mastery, the 
lady would get the better of it. 

Lizzie never told Miss Roanoke of her 
want of success, or even of the effort she 
had made; nor did the unhappy young 
woman come to her for any reply. The 
preparations went on, and it was quite 
understood that on this peculiar occasion 
Mrs. Carbuncle intended to treat her 
friends with profuse hospitality. She pro- 
posed to give a breakfast ; and as the 
house in Hertford street was veiy small, 
rooms had been taken at a hotel in Albe- 
marle street. Thither, as the day of the 
marriage drew near, all the presents were 
taken — so that they might be viewed by 
the guests, with the names of the donors 
attached to them. As some of the money 
given had been very much wanted indeed, 
so that the actual checks could not conve- 
niently be spared just at the moment to 
pay for the presents which ought to have 
been bought, a few very pretty things 
were hired, as to which, when the donors 
should see their names attached to them, 
they should surely think that the money 
given had been laid out to great advan- 
tage. 


CHAPTER LXVH. 

THE EYE OF THE PUBLIC. 

It took Lord Fawn a long time to write 
bis letter, but at last he wrote it. The de- 


lay must not be taken as throwing any 
slur on his character as a correspondent 
or a man of business, for many irritating 
causes sprang up sufficient to justify him 
in pleading that it arose from circumstan- 
ces beyond his own control. It is more- 
over felt by us all that the time which 
may fairly be taken in the performance of 
any task depends, not on the amount of 
work, but on the importance of it when 
done. A man is not expected to write a 
check for a couple of thousand pounds as 
readily as he would one for five, unless he 
be a man to whom a couple of thousand 
pounds is a mere nothing. To Lord Fawn 
the writing of this letter was everything. 
He had told Lizzie, with much exactness, 
what he would put into it. He would 
again offer his hand — acknowledging him- 
self bound to do so by his former offer — 
but would give reasons why she should 
not accept it. If anything should occur 
in the meantime which would in his opin- 
ion justify him in again repudiating her, 
he would of course take advantage of 
such circumstance. If asked himself what 
was his prevailing motive in all that he 
did or intended to do, he would have de- 
clared that it was above all things neces- 
sary that he should “ put himself right in 
the eye of the British public.” 

But he was not able to do this without 
interference from the judgment of others. 
Both Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway interfered ; 
and he could not prevent himself from lis- 
tening to them and believing them, though 
he would contradict all they said, and 
snub all their theories. Frank Greystock 
also continued to interfere, and Lady Glen- 
cora Palliser. Even John Eustace had 
been worked upon to write to Lord Fawn, 
stating his opinion as trustee for his late 
brother’s property, that the Eustace fam- 
ily did not think that there was ground of 
complaint against Lady Eustace in refer- 
ence to the diamonds which had been 
stolen. This was a terrible blow to Lord 
Fawn, and had come no doubt from a 
general agreement among the Eustace fac- 
tion — including the bishop, John Eustace, 
and even Mr. Camperdown — that it would 
be a good thing to get the widow married 
and placed under some decent control. 

Lady Glencora absolutely had the ef- 
frontery to ask him whether the marriage 
was not going to take place, and when a 
day would be fixed. He gathered up his 
courage to give her lad 3 'ship a rebuke. 


292 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ My private affairs do seem to be uncom- 
monly interesting,” he said. 

“Why yes, Lord Fawn,” said Lady 
Glencora, whom nothing could abash, 
“ most interesting. You see dear Lady 
Eustace is so very popular that we all 
want to know what is to be her fate.” 

“ I regret to say that I cannot answer 
your ladyship’s question with any preci- 
sion,” said Lord Fawn. 

But the Hittaway persecution was by 
far the worst. “ You have seen her, 
Frederic,” said his sister. 

“ Yes, I have.” 

“ You have made her no .promise? ” 

“ My dear Clara, this is a matter in 
which I must use my own judgment.” 

“But the family, Frederic? ” 

“ I do not think that any member of 
our family has a just right to complain of 
my conduct since I have had the honor of 
being its head. I have endeavored so to 
live that my actions should encounter no 
private or public censure. If I fail to 
meet with your approbation, I shall 
grieve ; but I cannot on that account act 
otherwise than in accordance with my 
own judgment.” 

Mrs. Hittaway knew her brother well, 
and was not afraid of him. “ That’s all 
very well ; and I am sure you know, Fred- 
eric, how proud we all are of you. But 
this woman is a nasty, low, scheming, ill- 
conducted, dishonest little wretch ; and if 
you make her your wife you’ll be misera- 
ble all your life. Nothing would make 
me and Orlando so unhappy as to quarrel 
with you. But we know that it is so, and 
to the last minute I shall say so. Why 
don’t you ask her to her face about that 
man down in Scotland ? ” 

“ My dear Clara, perhaps I know what 
to ask her and what not to ask her better 
than you can tell me.” 

And his brother-in-law was quite as 
bad. “ Fawn,” he said, “ in this matter 
of Lady Eustace, don’t you think you 
ought to put 5 "our conduct into the hands 
of some friend? ” 

“ What do you mean by that? ” 

“ I think it is an affair in which a man 
would have so much comfort in being able 
to say that he was guided by advice. Of 
course her people want you to marry her. 
Now if you could just tell them that the 
whole thing was in the hands of— say me, 
or any other friend, you would be relieved, 
’'ou know, of so much responsibility. 


They might hammer away at me ever so 
long and I shouldn’t care twopence.” 

“ If there is to be any hammering, it 
cannot be borne vicariously,” said Lord 
Fawn, and as he said it he was quite 
pleased by his own sharpness and wit. 

He had indeed put himself beyond pro- 
tection by vicarious endurance of hammer- 
ing when he promised to write to Lady 
Eustace, explaining his OAvn conduct and 
giving reasons. Had anything turned up 
in Scotland Yard which would have justi- 
fied him in sajing, or even in thinking, 
that Lizzie had stolen her own diamonds, 
he would have sent word to her that he 
must abstain from any communication till 
that matter had been cleared up ; but 
since the appearance of that mysterious 
paragraph in the newspapers nothing had 
been heard of the robbery, and public 
opinion certainly seemed to be in favor of 
‘Lizzie’s innocence. He did think that the 
Eustace faction was betraying him, as he 
could not but remember how eager Mr. 
Camperdown had been in asserting that 
the widow was keeping an enormous 
amount of property and claiming it as her 
own, whereas in truth she nad not the 
slightest title to it. It wai. in a great 
meafftre, in consequence qf tne assertions 
of the Eustace faction, almost in obedi- 
ence to their advice, that he had resolved 
to break off the match ; and now they 
turned upon him, and John Eustace abso- 
lutely went out of his way to write him a 
letter which was clearly meant to imply 
that he. Lord Fawn, was bound to marry 
the woman to whom he had once engaged 
himself ! Lord Fawn felt that he was ill- 
used, and that a man might have to un- 
dergo a great deal of bad treatment who 
should strive to put himself right in the 
e 3 'e of the public. 

At last he wrote his letter — on a 
Wednesday, which with him had some- 
thing of the comfort of a half-holiday, as 
on that day he was not required to attend 
Parliament. 

“ India Office, March 28, 18 — 

“My dear Lady Eustace: In accord- 
ance with the promise which I made to 
you when I did mj^self the honor of wait- 
ing upon you in Hertford street, I take up 
my pen with the view of communicating to 
you the result of my deliberations respect- 
ing the engagement of marriage which no 
doubt did exist between us last summer. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


293 


“ Since that time I have no doubt taken 
upon myself to say that that engagement 
was over ; and I am free to admit that I 
did so without any assent or agreement 
on 3 ^our part to that effect. Such conduct 
no doubt requires a valid and strong de- 
fence. My defence is as follows : 

“ I learned that you were in possession 
of a large amount of property, vested in 
diamonds, which was claimed by the exec- 
utors under your late husband’s will as 
belonging to his estate ; and as to which 
they declared, in the most positive man- 
ner, that 3 ’ou had no right or title to it 
whatever. I consulted friends and 1 con- 
sulted lawyers, and I was led to the con- 
viction that this property certainly did 
not belong to 3 ’ou. Had I married j’ou in 
these circumstances, I could not but have 
become a participator in the lawsuit which 
I was assured Avould be commenced. I 
could not be a participator with you, be- 
cause I believed you to be in the wrong. 
And I certainly could not participate with 
those who would in such case be attacking 
my own wife. 

“ In this condition of things I requested 
3 'ou — as 3 ’ou must I think yourself own, 
with all deference and good feeling — to 
give up the actual possession of the prop- 
erty, and to place the diamonds in neutral 
hands ” — Lord Fa^vn was often called 
upon to 1 j€ neutral in reference to the con- 
dition of outlying Indian principalities — 
“ till the law should have decided as to 
their ownership. As regards mj’self, I 
neither coveted nor rejected the possession 
of that wealth for my future wife. I de- 
sired simpl}'^ to be free from an embarrass- 
ment which would have overwiielmed me. 
You declined my request — not only posi- 
tively, but perhaps I may add perempto- 
rily ; and then I was bound to adhere to 
the decision 1 had communicated to you. 

“ Since that time the property has been 
stolen and, as I believe, dissipated. The 
lawsuit against you. has been withdrawn ; 
and the bone of contention, so to say, is 
no longer existing. I am no longer justi- 
fied in declining to keep my engagement 
because of the prejudice to which I should 
have been subjected by your possession of 
the diamonds ; and therefore, as far as 
that goes, I withdraw my withdrawal.” 
This Lord Fawn thought was rather a 
happy phrase, and he read it aloud to 
himself more than once. 

“ But now there arises the question 


whether, in both our interests, this mar- 
riage should go on, or wdiether it may not 
be more conducive to your happiness and 
. to mine that it should be annulled for 
causes altogether irrespective of the dia- 
monds. In a matter so serious as mar- 
riage, the happiness of the two parties is 
that which requires graver thought than 
any other consideration. 

■“ There has no doubt sprung up between 
us a feeling of mutual distrust, which has 
led to recrimination, and which is hardly 
compatible wdth that perfect confidence 
which should exist between a man and his 
wife. This first arose no doubt from the 
different views which we took as to that 
property of which I have spoken, and as 
to which 3 ^our judgment may possibly 
have been better than mine. On that head 
I will add nothing to what I have already 
said; but the feeling has arisen, and I 
fear it cannot be so perfectly allayed as to 
admit of that reciprocal trust without 
which we could not live happily together. 
I confess that for my own part I do not 
now desire a union which was once the 
great object of my ambition, and that 1 
could not go to the altar with you without 
fear and trembling. As to your own feel- 
ings, you best know what they are. I 
bring no charge against j-ou ; but if you 
have ceased to love me I think you should 
cease to wish to be my wife, and that you 
should not insist upon a marriage simply 
because by doing so you would triumph 
over a former objection.” Before he fin- 
ished this paragraph he thought much of 
Andy Gowran and of the scene among the 
rocks of which he had heard. But he 
could not speak of it. He had found him- 
self unable to examine the witness who 
had been brought to him, and had honest- 
ly told himself that he could not take that 
charge as proved. Andy Gowran might 
have lied. In his heart he believed that 
Andy Gowran had lied. The matter Avas 
distasteful to him, and he would not touch 
it. And yet he knew that the woman did 
not love him, and he longed to tell her so. 

“ As to what Ave might each gain or 
each lose in a worldly point of vieAV, eith- 
er by marrying or not marrying, I Avill 
notsay a word. You haA’e rank and wealth, 
and therefore I can comfort myself by 
thinkin_^ that if I dissuade 3 "Ou from this 
marriage I shall rob you pf neither. I ac- 
knowledge that I wish to dissuade you, os 
I believe that we should not make each 


294 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


other happy. As however I do consider 
that I am bound to keep my engagement 
to you if you demand that 1 shall do so, 

I leave the matter in your hands for deci- . 
sion. I am, and shall remain, your sin- 
cere friend, 

“Fawn.” 

He^read the letter and copied it, and 
gave himself great credit for the composi- 
tion. He thought that it was impossible 
that any woman after reading it should 
express a wish to become the wife of the 
man who wrote it ; and yet — so he believ- 
ed no man or woman could find fault with 
him for writing it. There certainly was 
one view of the case which was very dis- 
tressing. How would it be with him if 
after all she should say that she would 
marry him? After having given her her 
choice — having put it all in writing — he 
could not again go back from it. He 
would be in her power, and of what use 
would his life be to him ? Would Parlia- 
ment or the India Office or the eye of the 
public be able to comfort him then in the 
midst of his many miseries? What could 
he do with a wife whom he married with 
a declaration that he disliked her ? AYith 
such feelings as were his, how could he 
stand before a clergyman and take an oath 
that he would love her and cherish her ? 
W ould she not ever be as an adder to him 
— as an adder whom it would be impossi- 
ble that he should admit into his bosom ? 
Could he live in the same house with her ; 
and if so, could he ask his mother and 
sisters to visit her ? He remembered well 
what Mrs. Hittaway had called her — a 
nasty, low, scheming, ill-conducted, dis- 
honest little wretch ! And he believed 
that she was so ! Yet he was once again 
offering to marry her, should she choose 
to accept him. 

Nevertheless, the letter was sent. 
There was, in truth, no alternative. He 
had promised that he would write such a 
letter, and all that had remained to him 
was the power of cramming into it every 
available argument against the marriage. 
This he had done and, as he thought, 
had done well. It ■w^as impossible that 
she should desire to marry him after read- 
ing such a letter as that ! 

Lizzie received it in her bedroom, where 
she breakfasted, and told of its arrival to 
her friend Mrs. Carbuncle as soon as they 
met each other. “ My lord has come 


down from his high horse at last ’ she 
said, with the letter in her hand. 

‘ ‘ What — Lord Fawn ? ” 

“ Yes ; Lord Fawn. What other lord ? 
There is no other lord for me. He is my 
lord, my peer of Parliament, my Cabinet 
minister, my right honorable, my member 
of the Government— my young man too, 
as the maid-servants call them.” 

“ What does he say ? ” 

“ Say— what should he say — just that 
he has behaved very badly, and that he 
hopes I shall forgive him.” 

“ Not quite that ; does he ? ” 

“ That’s what it all means. Of course 
there is ever so much of it-^pages of it. 
It wouldn’t be Lord Fawn if he didn’t 
spin it all out, like an act of Parliament, 
with whereas and whereis and whereof. 
It is full of all that ; but the meaning of 
it is that he’s at my feet again, and that 
I may pick him up if I choose to take him. 
I’d show you the letter, only perhai^s it 
wouldn’t be fair to the poor man.” 

“ What excuse does he make ?” 

“ Oh — as to that he’s rational enough. . 
He calls the necklace the — bone of con- 
tention. That’s rather good for Lord 
Fawn ; isn’t it? The bone of contention, 
he says, has been removed ; and therefore 
there is no reason why we shouldn’t mar- 
ry if we like it. He shall hear enough 
about the bone of contention if we do 
‘marry.’ ” 

“ And what shall you do now ? ” 

“ Ah yes ; that’s easily asked ; is it 
not ? The man’s a good sort of man in 
his way, you know. He doesn’t drink or 
gamble ; and I don’t think there is a bit of 
the King David about him — that I don’t.” 

• “ Virtue personified, I should say.” 

“ And he isn’t extravagant.” 

“ Then why not have him and done with 
it?” asked Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“He is such a lumpy man,” said Liz- 
zie ; “ such an ass ; such a load of gov- 
ernment waste paper.” 

“ Come, my dear ; you’ve had troubles.” 

“ I have indeed,” said Lizzie. 

“ And there’s no quite knowing yet how 
how far they’re over.” 

“ What do you mean by that, Mrs. Car- 
buncle? ” 

“Nothing very much; but still, you 
see, they may come again. As to Lord 
George, we all knoAV that he has not got a 
penny-piece in the world that he can call 
his own.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


295 


** if he had as many pennies as Judas, 
Lord George would be nothing to me,” 
said Lizzie. 

“ And your cousin really doesn’t seem 
to mean anything.” 

“ I know very well what my cousin 
means. He and I understand each other 
thoroughly; but cousins can love one 
another very well without mariying.” 

“ Of course you know your own busi- 
ness, but if I were you I would take Lord 
Fawn. I speak in true kindness, as one 
woman to another. After all, what does 
love signify ? How much real love do we 
ever see among married people? Does 
Lady Glencora Palliser really love her hus- 
band, who thinks of nothing in the world 
but putting taxes on and off? ” 

“ Do you love your husband, Mrs. Car- 
buncle?” 

“ No ; but that is a different kind of 
thing. Circumstances have caused me to 
live apart from him. The man is a good 
man, and there is no reason why you 
should not respect him and treat him well. 
He will give you a fixed position, which 
really you want badly. Lady Eustace.” 

“ Torriloo, tooriloo, tooriloo, looriloo,” 
said Lizzie, in contemptuous disdain of 
her friend’s caution. 

“And then all this trouble about the 
diamonds and the robberies will be over,” 


continued Mrs. Carbuncle. Lizzie looked 
at her very intently. What should make 
Mrs. Carbuncle suppose that there need 
be, or indeed could be, any further trouble 
about the diamonds? 

“ So, that’s your advice,” said Lizzie. 
“I’m half inclined to take it, and perhaps 
I shall. However, I have brought him 
round, and that’s something, my dear. 
And either one way or the other, I shall 
let him know that I like my triumph. 1 
was determined to have it, and I’ve got 
it.” 

Then she read the letter again very se- 
riously. Could she possibly marry a man 
who in so many words told her that he 
didn’t want her? WeU, she thought she 
could. Was not everybody treating every- 
body else much in the same way? Had 
she not loved her Corsair truly, and how 
had he treated her? Had she not been 
true, disinterested, and most affectionate 
to Frank Greystock ; and what had she 
got from him ? To manage her business 
wisely, and put herself upon firm ground, 
that was her duty at present. Mrs. Car- 
buncle was right there. The very name 
of Lady Fawn would be a rock to her, and 
she wanted a rock. She thought upon the 
whole that she could marry him — unless 
Patience Crabstick and the police should 
again interfere with her prosperity. 


CHAPTER LXVrii. 

THE MAJOR. 

L ady EUSTACE did not intend to 
take as much time in answering Lord 
Fawn’s letter as he had taken in writing it ; 
but even she found that the subject vs as one' 
which demanded a good deal of thought. 
Mrs. Carbuncle had very freely recom- 
mended her to take the man, supporting 
her advice by arguments which Lizzie felt 
to be valid ; but then Mrs. Carbuncle did 
not know all the circumstances. Mrs. 
Carbuncle had not actually seen his lord- 
ship’s letter ; and though the great ‘part 
of the letter, the formal repetition, name- 
ly, of the writer’s offer of marriage, had 
been truly told to her, still, as the reader 
will have perceived, she had been kept in 
the dark as to some of the details. Lizzie 
did sit at her desk with the object of put- 
ting a few words together in order that 
she might see how they looked, and. she 
found that there was a difficulty. “My 
dear Lord Fawn. As we have been en- 
gaged to marry each other, and as all our 
friends have been told, I think that the 
thing had better go on.” That, after va- 
rious attempts, was, she thought, the best 
letter that she could send — if she should 
make up her mind to be Lady Fawn. But, 
on the morning of the 30th pf March she 
had not sent her letter. She had told her- 
self that she would take two days to think 
of her reply, and on the Friday morning 
the few words she had prepared were still 
lying in her desk. 

What was she to get by marrying a man 
she absolutely disliked ? That he also ab- 
solutely disliked her was not a matter 
much in her thoughts. The man would 
not ill-treat her because he disliked her ; 
or, it might perhaps be juster to say, that 
the ill-treatment which she might fairly 
anticipate would not be of a nature which 
would much affect her comfort grievously. 
He would not beat her, nor rob her, nor 
lock her up, nor starve her. He would 
either neglect her or preach sermons to 
her. For the first she could console her- 
self by the attention of others; and 
should he preach, perhaps she could 


preach too — as sharply if not as lengthily 
as his lordship. At any rate she was not 
afraid of him. But what would she gain ? 
It is very well to have a rock, as Mrs. Car- 
buncle had said, but a rock is not every- 
thing. She did not know whether she 
cared much for living upon a rock. 
Even stability may be purchased at too 
high a price. There was not a grain of 
poeti’y in the whole composition of Lord 
Fawn, and poetry was what her very soul 
craved — poetry, together with houses, 
champagne, jewels, and admiration. Her 
income was still her own, and she did not 
quite see that the rock was so absolutely 
necessary to her. Then she wrote another 
note to Lord Fawn, a specimen of a note, 
so that she might have the opportunity of 
comparing the two. This note took her 
much longer than the one first written. 
“ My Lord, I do not "know how to acknowl- 
edge with sufficient humility the conde- 
scension and great kindness of your lord- 
ship’s letter. But perhaps its manly gen- 
erosity is more conspicuous than either. 
The truth is, my Lord, you want to escape 
from your engagement, but are too much 
afraid of the consequences to dare to do so 
by any act of your own. Therefore you 
throw it upon me. You are quite success- 
ful. I don’t think you ever read poetry, 
but perhaps you may understand the two 
following lines : 

“ ‘ I am constrained to say your lordshiiD’s scul- 
lion 

Should sooner he my husband than yourself.^ 

“I see through you, and despise you 
thoroughly. E. Eustace.” 

She was comparing the two answers to- 
gether, very much in doubt as to which 
should be sent, when there came a mes- 
sage to her by a man whom she knew 
to be a policeman, though he did not an- 
nounce himself as such, and was dressed 
in plain clothes. Major Mackintosh sent 
his compliments to her, and would wait 
upon her that afternoon at three o’clock, 
if she would have the kindness to receive 
him. At the fiisjt moment of seeing the 
man she felt that after all the rock was 
what she wanted. Mrs. Carbuncle was 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


297 


rigl.t. S!ie had had troubles and might 
have more, and the rock was the thing. 
Kilt then the more certainly did she be- 
come convinced of this by the presence of 
the major’s messenger, the more clearly 
did she see the difficulty of attaining the 
security which the rock offered. If this 
public exposure should fall upon her, Lord 
Fawn’s renewed offer, as she knew well, 
would stand for nothing. If once it were 
known that she had kept the necklace — 
her own necklace — under her pillow at 
Carlisle, he would want no further justifi- 
cation in repudiating her, were it for tlie 
tenth time. 

She was very uncivil to the messenger, 
and the more so because she found that 
the man bore her rudeness without turn- 
ing upon her and rending her. AVhen she 
declared that the police had behaved very 
badly, and that Major Mackintosh was in- 
excusable in troubling her again, and that 
she had ceased to care two-pence about 
the necklace, the man made no remon- 
strance to her petulance. He owned that 
the trouble was very great, and the police 
very inefficient. He almost owned that 
the major was inexcusable. He did not 
care what he owned so that he achieved 
his object. But when Lizzie said that she 
could not see Major Mackintosh at three, 
and objected equally to two, four, or five ; 
then the courteous messenger from Scot- 
land Yard did say a word to make her un- 
derstand that there must be a meeting — 
and he hinted also that the major was do- 
ing a most unusually good-natured thing 
in coming to Hertford street. Of course 
Lizzie made the appointment. If the ma- 
jor chose to come, she would be at home 
at three. 

As soon as the policeman was gone she 
sat alone, with a manner very much 
changed from that which she had wmrn 
since the arrival of Lord Fawn’s letter ; 
with a fresh weight of care upon her, 
greater perhaps than she had ever hither- 
to borne. She had had bad moments — 
when, for instance, she had been taken be- 
fore the magistrates at Carlisle, when she 
found the police in her house on her re- 
turn from the theatre, and when Ix)rd 
George had forced her secret from her. 
But at each of these periods hope had 
come renewed before despair had crushed 
her. Now it seemed to her that the thing 
was done and that the game was over. 
This chief man of the London police no 


donbt knew the whole story. If she could 
only already have climbed upon some rock, 
so that there might be a man bound to de- 
fend her — a man at any rate bound to put 
himself forward on her behalf and do 
whatever might be done in her defence, 
she might have endured it ! 

What would she do now, at this min- 
ute ? She looked at her watch and found 
that it was already past one. Mrs. Car- 
buncle, as she knew, was closeted uj) 
stairs with Lucinda, whose wedding was 
fixed for the following Monday. It was 
now Friday. Were she to call upon Mrs. 
Carbuncle for aid no aid would be forth- 
coming unless she were to tell the whole 
truth. She almost thought that she 
would do so. But then, how great would 
have been her indiscretion if, after all, 
when the major should come, she should 
discover that he did not know the truth 
himself! That Mrs. Carbuncle would 
keep her secret she did not for a moment 
think. She longed for the comfort of 
some friend’s counsel, but she found at 
last that she could not purchase it by tell- 
ing everything to a woman. 

Might it not be possible that she should 
still run away ? She did not know much 
of the law, but she thought that they 
could not punish her for breaking an ap- 
pointment even with a man so high in au- 
thority as Major Mackintosh. She could 
leave a note saying that pressing business 
called her out. But whither should she 
go? She thought of taking a cab to the 
House of Commons, finding her cousin, 
and telling him everything. It would be 
so much better that he should see the ma- 
jor. But then again it might be that she 
should be mistaken as to the amount of 
the major’s information. After a while 
she almost determined to fly ofl’at once to 
Scotland, leaving word that she was 
obliged to go instantly to her child. But 
there was no direct train to Scotland be- 
fore eight or nine in the evening, and dur- 
ing the intervening hours the police would 
have ample time to find her. What, in- 
deed, could she do with herself during 
these intervening* hours? Ah, if she had 
but a rock now, so that she need not be 
dependent altogether on the exercise of 
her own intellect ! 

Gradually the minutes passed by, and 
she became aware that she must face the 
major. Well! What had she done? 
She had stolen nothing. Slie had taken 


298 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


no person’s property. She had, indeed, 
been wickedly robbed, and the police had 
done nothing to get back for her her prop- 
erty, as they were bound to have done. 
She would take care to tell the major 
what she thought about the negligence of 
the police. The major should not have 
the talk all to himself. 

If it had not been for one word with 
which Lord George had stunned her ears, 
3h3 could still have borne it well. She 
had told a lie ; perhaps two or three lies. 
She knew that she had lied. But then peo- 
ple lie every day. She would not have 
minded it much if she were simply to be 
called a liar. But he had told her that 
she would be accused of perjury. There 
was something frightful to her in the 
name. And there were she knew not what 
dreadful penalties attached to it. Lord 
George had told her that she might be put 
in prison — whether he had said for years 
or for months she had forgotten. And 
she thought she had heard of people’s 
property being confiscated to the Crown 
when they had been made out to be guilty 
of certain great offences. Oh, how she 
wished that she had a rock ! 

When three o’clock came she had not 
started for Scotland or elsewhere, and at 
last she received the major. Could she 
have thoroughly trusted the servant she 
would have denied herself at the last mo- 
ment, but she feared that she might be 
betrayed, and she thought that her posi- 
tion would be rendered even worse than it 
was at present by a futile attempt. She 
was sitting alone, pale, haggard, trem- 
bling, when Major Mackintosh was shown 
into her room. It may be as well explain- 
ed at once, at this moment ; the major 
knew, or thought that he knew, every cir- 
cumstance of the two robberies, and that 
his surmises were, in every respect, right. 
Miss Crabstick and Mr. Cann were in 
comfortable quarters, and were prepared 
to tell all that they could tell. Mr. Smil- 
er was in durance, and Mr. Benjamin 
was at Vienna, in the hands of the Aus- 
trian police, who were prepared to give 
him up to those who desired his society in 
England, on the completion of certain le-r 
gal formalities. That Mr. Benjamin and 
Mr. Smiler would be prosecuted, the lat- 
ter for the robbery and the former for con- 
spiracy to rob, and for receiving stolen 
goods, was a matter of course. But what 
was to be done with Lady Eustace ? That, 


at the present moment, was the prevailing 
trouble with the police. During the last 
three weeks every precaution had been 
taken to keep the matter secret, and it is 
hardly too much to say that Lizzie’s inter- 
ests were handled not only with consider- 
ation but with tenderness. 

“Lady Eustace,” said the major, “1 
am very sorry to trouble you. No doubt 
the man who called on you this morning 
explained to you who I am.” 

“ Oh yes, I know who you are— quite 
well.” Lizzie made a great effort to speak 
without betraying her consternation ; but 
she was nearly prostrated. The major, 
however, hardly observed her, and was 
by no means at ease himself in his effort 
to save her from unnecessary annoyance. 
He was a tall, thin, gaunt man of about 
forty, with large, good-natured eyes — but 
it was not till the interview was half over 
that Lizzie took courage to look even into 
his face. 

“ Just so ; I am come, j^ou know, about 
the robbery which took place here — and 
the other robbery at Carlisle.” 

“ I have been so troubled about these 
horrid robberies ! Sometimes I think 
they’ll be the death of me.” 

“ I think. Lady Eustace, we have found 
out the whole truth.” 

“ Oh, I daresay. I wonder why — you 
have been so long — finding it out.” 

“We have had very clever people to 
deal with. Lady Eustace — and I fear that, 
even now, we shall never get back the 
property.” 

“ I do not care about the property, sir 
— although it was all my own. Nobody 
has lost anything but myself; and I really 
don’t see why the thing should not die 
out, as I don’t care about it. Whoever 
it is, they may have it now.” 

“We were bound to get to the bottom 
of it all, if we could ; and I think that we 
have — at last. Perhaps, as you say, we 
ought to have done it sooner.” 

“ Oh — I don’t care.” 

“We have two persons in custody, 
Lady Eustace, whom we shall use as wit- 
nesses, and I am afraid we shall have to 
call upon you also — as a witness.” It 
occurred to Lizzie that they could not 
lock her up in prison and make her a wit 
ness too, but she said nothing. Then the 
major continued his speech — and asked 
her the question which was, in fact, alone 
material. “ Of course, Lad}’^ Eustace, 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


299 


you are not bound to say anything to me 
unless you like — and you must understand 
that I by no means wish you to criminate 
yourself.’- 

“ I don’t know what that means.” 

“If you yourself have done anything 
wrong, I don’t want to ask you to confess 
it.” 

“ I have had all my diamonds stolen, if 
you mean that. Perhaps it was wrong to 
have diamonds.” 

“ But to come to my question — I sup- 
pose we may take it for granted that the 
diamonds were in your desk when the 
thieves made their entrance into this 
house, and broke the desk open, and stole 
the money out of it?” Lizzie breathed 
so hardly, that she was quite unable to 
speak. The man’s voice was very gentle 
end very kind — but then how could she 
admit that one fact? All depended on 
that one fact. “ The woman Crabstick,” 
said the major, “ has confessed, and will 
state on her oath that she saw the neck- 
lace in your hands in Hertford street, and 
that she saw it placed in the desk. She 
then gave information of this to Benja- 
min — as she had before given information 
as to your journey up from Scotland — and 
she was introduced to the two men whom 
she let into the house. One of them, in- 
deed, who will also give evidence for us, 
she had before met at Carlisle. She then 
was present when the necklace was taken 
out of the desk. The man who opened 
the desk and took it out, who also cut the 
door at Carlisle, will give evidence to the 
same effect. The man who carried the 
necklace out of the house, and who broke 
open the box at Carlisle, will be tried — 
as will also Benjamin, who disposed of 
the diamonds. I have told you the whole 
story, as it has been told to me by the 
woman Crabstick. Of course you will 
deny the truth of it, if it be untrue.” 
Lizzie sat with her eyes fixed upon the 
floor, but said nothing. She could not 
speak. “ If you will allow me. Lady 
Eustace, to give you advice— really friend- 
ly advice ” 

“ Oh, pray do.” 

“ You had better admit the truth of the 
story, jf it is true.” 

“ They were my own,” she whisper- 
ed. 

“ Or, at any rate, you believed that they 
were. There can be no doubt, I think, 
as to that. No one supposes that the 


robbery at Carlisle was arranged on your 
behalf.” 

“ Oh, no. 

“ But you had taken them out of the 
box before you went to bed at the inn ? ” 

“ Not then.” 

“ But you had taken them ?” 

“ I did it in the morning before I start- 
ed from Scotland. They frightened me 
by saying the box would be stolen.” 

‘ ‘ Exactly — and then you put them into 
your desk here, in this house ? ” 

“ Yes — sir.” 

“ I should tell you, Lady Eustace, that 
I had not a doubt about this before I came 
here. For some time past I have thought 
that it must be so ; and latterly the con- 
fession of two of the accomplices has 
made it certain to me. One of the house- 
breakers and the jeweller will be tried for 
the felony, and I am afraid that you must 
undergo the annoyance of being one of the 
witnesses.” 

“ What will they do to me. Major Mack- 
intosh?” Lizzie now for the first time 
looked up into his eyes, and felt that they 
were kind. Could he be her rock? He 
did not speak to her like an enemy— and 
then, too, he would know better than any 
man alive how she might best escape from 
her trouble. 

“ They will ask you to tell the truth.” 

“Indeed I will do that,” said Lizzie — 
not aware that, after so many lies, -it might 
be difficult to tell the truth. 

“ And you will probably be asked to re- 
peat it, this way and that, in a manner 
that will be troublesome to you . You see 
that here in London, and at Carlisle, you 
have — given incorrect versions.” 

“ I know I have. But the necklace 
was my own. There was nothing dis- 
honest — was there. Major Mackintosh? 
When they came to me at Carlisle I was so 
confused that I hardly knew what to tell 
them. And when I had once — given an 
incorrect version, you know, I didn’t 
know how to go back.” 

The major was not so well acquainted 
with Lizzie as is the reader, and he pitied 
her. “ I can understand all that,” he 
said. 

How much kinder he was than Lord 
George had been when she confessed the 
truth to him. Here would be a rock ! 
And such a handsome man as he was, too 
— not exactly a Corsair, as he was great 
in authority over the London police — but 


300 


TPIE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


a powerful, fine fellow, who would know 
what to do with swords and pistols as well 
as any Corsair — and one, too, no doubt, 
who would understand poetry ! Any such 
dream, however, was altogether unavail- 
ing, as the major had a wife at home and 
seven children. “ If you will onl}’’ tell 
me what to do, I will do it,” she said, 
looking up into his face with entreaty, 
and pressing her hands together in suppli- 
cation. 

Then at great length, and with much 
patience, he explained to her what he 
would have her do. He thought that, 
if she were summoned and used as a wit- 
ness, there would be no attempt to prose- 
cute her for the — incorrect versions — of 
which she had undoubtedly been guilty. 
The probability was, that she would receive 
assurance to this effect before she would 
be asked to give her evidence, prepara- 
tory to the committal of Benjamin and 
Smiler. He could not assure her that it 
would be so, but he had no doubt of it. 
In order, however, that things might be 
made to run as smooth as possible, he re- 
commended her very strongly to go at 
once to Mr. Camperdown and make a 
clean breast of it to him. “ The whole 
family should be told, ” said the major, 
“ and it will be better for you that they 
should know it from yourself than from 
us.” When she hesitated, he explained 
to her that the matter could no longer be 
kept as a secret, and that her evidence 
would certainly appear in the papers. He 
proposed that she should be summoned 
for that day week — which would be the 
Friday after Lucinda’s marriage, and he 
suggested that she should go to Mr. 
Camperdown ’s on the morrow. “ What 
— to-morrow?” exclaimed Lizzie, in dis- 
may. 

“My dear Lady Eustace,” said the ma- 
jor, “ the sooner 5^ou get back into straight 
running, the sooner you will be comforta- 
ble.” Then she promised that she would 
go on the Tuesday — the day after the mar- 
riage. “ If he learns it in the meantime, 
you must not be surprised,” said the ma- 
jor. 

“ Tell me one thing. Major Mackin- 
tosh,” she said, as she gave him her hand 
at parting, “ they can’t take away from 
me anything that is my own — can they ? ” 

“ I don’t think they can,” said the ma- 
jor, escaping rather quickly from the 
room. 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

“ I cannot do it.” 

The Saturday and the Sunday Lizzie 
passed in outward tranquillity, though 
doubtless her mind was greatly disturbed. 
She said nothing of what had passed be- 
tween her and Major Mackintosh, explain- 
ing that his visit had been made solely 
with the object of informing her that Mr. 
Benjamin was to be sent home from Vien- 
na, but that the diamonds were gone for- 
ever. She had, as she declared to herself, 
agreed with ^Major Mackintosh that she 
would not go to Mr. Camperdown till the 
Tuesday — justifying her delay by her so 
licitude in reference to Miss Roanoke’s 
marriage ; and therefore these two days 
were her own. After them would come a 
totally altered phase of existence. All 
the world "would know the history of the 
diamonds — cousin Frank, and Lord Fawn, 
and John Eustace, and Mrs. Carbuncle, 
and the Bobsborough people, and Lady 
Glencora, and thatoldvulturess, her aunt, 
the Countess of Linlithgow. It must 
come now — but she had two daj's in which 
she could be quiet and think of her posi- 
tion. She would, she thought, send one 
of her letters to Lord Fawn before she 
went to Mr. Camperdown — but w'hich 
should she send ? Or should she write a 
third explaining the whole matter in 
sweetly-piteous feminine terms, and swear- 
ing that the only remaining feeling in her 
bosom -was a devoted affection to the man 
who had now twice promised to be her 
husband ? 

In the meantime the preparations for 
the great marriage went on. Mrs. Car- 
buncle spent her time busily between Lu- 
cinda’s bedchamber and the banqueting 
hall in Albemarle street. In spite of pe- 
cuniary difficulties the trousseau was to 
be a wonder ; and even Lizzie was aston- 
ished at the jewelry which that inde- 
fatigable woman had collected together 
for a preliminary show in Hertford street. 
She had spent hours at Howell and James’s , 
and had made marvellous bargains there 
and elsewhere. Things were sent for se- 
lection, of which the greater portion were 
to be returned, but all were kept for the 
show. The same things which were 
shown to separate friends in Hertford 
street as part of the trousseau on Friday 
and Saturday, were carried over to Albe- 
marle street on the Sunday, so as to add 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


301 


to the quasi-public exhibition of presents 
on the Monday. The money expended 
had gone very far. The most had been 
made of a failing credit. Every particle 
of friendly generosity had been so manip- 
ulated as to add to the external magnifi- 
cence. And Mrs. Carbuncle had done all 
this without any help from Lucinda, in 
the midst of most contemptuous indifier- 
ence on Lucinda’s part. She could hard- 
ly be got to allow the milliners to fit the 
dresses to her body, and positively refused 
to thrust her feet into certain golden- 
heeled boots with brightly- bronzed toes, 
which were a great feature among the 
raiment. Nobody knew it except Mr«. 
Carbuncle and the maid ; even Lizzie Eus- 
tace did not know it ; but once the bride 
absolutely ran amuck among the finery, 
scattering the laces here and there, pitch- 
ing the glove-boxes under the bed, chuck- 
ing the golden-heeled boots into the fire- 
place, and exhibiting quite a tempest of 
fury against one of the finest shows of 
petticoats ever arranged with a view to 
the admiration and envy of female friends. 
But all this Mrs, Carbuncle bore, and 
still persevered. The thing was so nearly 
done now that she could endure to perse- 
vere though the provocation to abandon 
it was so great. She had even ceased to 
find fault with her niece, but went on in 
silence counting the hours till the trouble 
should be taken off her own shoulders and 
placed on those of Sir Griffin. It was a 
great thing to her, almost more than she 
iiad expected, that neither Lucinda nor 
Sir Griffin should have positively declined 
the marriage. It was impossible that 
either should retreat from it now. 

Luckily for Mrs. Carbuncle Sir Griffin 
took delight in the show. He did this 
after a bearish fashion, putting his finger 
upon little flaws, with an intelligence for 
which Mrs. Carbuncle had not hitherto 
given him credit. As to certain orna- 
ments, he observed that the silver was 
plated and the gold ormolu. A “ rope ” 
of pearls he at once detected as being 
false, and after fingering certain lace he 
turned up his nose and shook his head. 
Then, on the Sunday, in Albemarle street, 
he pointed out to Mrs. Carbuncle sundry 
articles wiiich he had seen in the bed- 
room on the Saturday. “But, my dear 
Sir Griffin, that’s of course,” said Mrs. 
Carbuncle “ Oh ; that’s of course, is 
it? ” said Sir Griffin, turning up his nose 


again. “ Where did that Delft bowl 
come from?” “It is one of Mortlook’s 
finest Etruscan vases,” said Mrs. Carbun- 
cle. “ Oh, I thought that Etruscan vases 
came from — from somewhere in Greece or 
Italy.” said Sir Griffin. “ I declare that 
you are shocking,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, 
struggling to maintain her good humor. 

He passed hours of the Sunday in Hert- 
ford street, and Lord George also was 
there for some time. Lizzie, who could 
hardly devote her mind to the affairs of 
the wedding, remained alone in her own 
sitting-room during the greater part of 
the day ; but she did show herself 
while Lord George was there. “ So I 
hear that Mackintosh has been here,” 
said Lord George. 

“ Yes, he was here.” 

“ And what did he say ? ” Lizzie did 
not like the way in which the man looked 
at her, feeling it to be not only unfriendly, 
but absolutely cruel. It seemed to imply 
that he knew that her secret was about to 
be divulged. And what was he to her 
now that he should be impertinent to 
her? What he knew, all the world would 
know before the end of the week. And 
that other man who knew it already, had 
been kind to her, had said nothing about 
perjury, but had explained to her that 
what she would have to bear would be 
trouble, and not imprisonment and loss 
of monej'. Lord George, to whom she 
had been so civil, for whom she had spent 
money, to whom she had almost offered 
herself and all that she possassed — Lord 
George, whom she had selected as the 
first repository of her secret, had spoken 
no word to comfort her, but had made 
things look worse for her than they were. 
Why should she submit to be questioned 
by Lord George? In a day or two the se- 
cret which he knew would be no secret. 
“ Never mind what he said, Lord George,” 
she replied. 

“ Has he found it all out? ” 

“ You had better go and ask himself,’’ 
said Lizzie. “ I am sick of the subject, 
and I mean to have done with it.” 

Lord George laughed, and Lizzie hated 
him for his laugh. 

“I declare,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, 
“that you two who were such friends, 
are always snapping at each other now.” 

“ The fickleness is all on her ladyship’s 
part, not on mine,” said Lord George; 
whereupon Lady Eustace walked out of 


302 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


tlie room and was not seen again till din- 
ner-time. 

Soon afterward Lucinda also endeavor- 
ed to escape, but to this Sir Griffin ob- 
jected. Sir Griffin was in a very good 
humor, and bore himself like a prosperous 
bridegroom. “ Come, Luce,” he said, 
“ get off your high horse for a little. To- 
morrow, you know, you must come down 
altogether.” 

“ So much the more reason for my re- 
maining up to-day.” 

“I’ll be shot if you shall,” said Sir 
Griffin. “ Luce, sit in my lap, and give 
me a kiss.” 

At this moment Lord George and Mrs. 
Carbuncle were in the front drawing- 
room, and Lord George was telling her 
the true story as to the necklace. It must 
be exi^lained on his behalf that in doing 
this he did not consider that he was be- 
traying the trust reposed in him. “ They 
know all about it in Scotland Yard,” he 
said ; “ I got it from Gager. They were 
bound to tell me as, up to this week past, 
every man in the police thought that I 
had been the master-mind among the 
thieves. When I think of it I hardly 
know whether to laugh or ciy.” 

“ And she had them all the time? ” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“Yes; in this house! Did you ever 
hear of such a little cat? I could tell you 
more than that. She wanted me to take 
them and dispose of them.” 

“No.” 

“She did though; and now see the 
way she treats me ! Never mind. Don’t 
say a word to her about it till it comes 
out of itself. ' She’ll have to be arrested, 
no doubt.” 

“ Arrested ! ” Mrs. Carbuncle’s further 
exclamations were stopped by Lucinda’s 
struggles in the other room. She had de- 
clined to sit upon the bridegroom’s lap, 
but had acknowledged that she was bound 
to submit to be kissed. He had kissed 
her, and then had striven to drag her on 
to his knee. But she was strong, and had 
resisted violently, and, as he afterward 
said, had struck him savagely. 

“Of course I struck him,” said Lucinda. 

“By you shall pay for it,” said 

Sir Griffin. This took place in the pres- 
ence of Lord George and Mrs. Carbuncle, 
and yet they were to be married to-mor- 
row. 

“ The idea of complaining that a girl 


hit you — and the girl who is to be your 
wife ! ” said Lord George, as they walked 
off together. 

“ I know what to complain of, and 
what not,” said Sir Griffin. “ Are you 
going to let me have that money?” 

“No; I am not,” said Lord George, 
“ so there’s an end of that.” Neverthe- 
less, they dined together at their club 
afterward, and in the evening Sir Griffin 
was again in Hertford street. , - v 

This happened on the Sunday, on which 
da}^ none of the ladies had gone to church. 
Mr. Emilius well understood the cause of 
their absence, and felt nothing of a par- 
son’s anger at it. He was to marry the 
couple on the Monday morning, and dined 
with the ladies on the Sunday. He was 
peculiarly gracious and smiling, and 
spoke of the Hymeneals as though they 
were even more than ordinarily joyful 
and happy in their promise. To Lizzie 
he was almost affectionate, and Mrs. Car- 
buncle he flattered to the top of her bent, 
The power of the man, in being sprightly 
under such a load of trouble as oppressed 
the household, was wonderful. He had 
to do with three women who were world- 
ly, hard, and given entirely to evil things. 
Even as regarded the bride, who felt the 
horror of her position, so much must be, 
in truth, admitted. Though from day to 
day and hour to hour she would openly 
declare her hatred of the things around 
her, yet she went on. Since she had en- 
tered upon life she had known nothing 
but falsehood and scheming wickedness ; 
and, though she rebelled against the con- 
sequences, she had not rebelled against 
the wickedness. Now, to this unfortu- 
nate young woman and her two com- 
panions, Mr. Emilius discoursed wdth an 
unctuous mixture of celestial and terres- 
trial glorification, which was proof, at 
any rate, of great ability on his part. 
He told them how a good wife was a 
crown, or rather a chaplet of ethereal 
roses to her husband, and how high 
rank and great station in the world made 
such a chaplet more beautiful and more 
valuable. His work in the vineyard, 
he said, had fallen lately among the 
wealthy and nobly born ; and though he 
would not say that he was entitled to 
take glory on that account, still he gave 
thanks daily, in that he had been enabled 
to give his humble assistance toward the 
running of a godly life to those who, by 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


303 


their example, were enabled to have so 
wide an effect upon their poorer fellow- 
creatures. He knew well how difficult it 
was for a camel to go through the eye of 
a needle. They had the highest possible 
authority for that. But Scriptures never 
said that the camel, which, as he explain- 
ed it, was simply a thread larger than 
ordinar}’- thread, could not go through the 
needle’s eye. The camel which succeeded, 
in spite of the difficulties attending its ex- 
alted position, would be peculiarly blessed. 
And he went on to suggest that the three 
ladies before him, one of whom was about 
to enter upon a new phase of life to-mor- 
row, under auspices peculiarly propitious, 
were, all of them, camels of this descrip- 
tion. Sir Griffin, when he came in, re- 
ceived for awhile the peculiar attention 
of Mr. Emilius. “ I think. Sir Griffin,” 
he commenced, “ that no period of a man’s 
life is so blessed, as that upon which you 
will enter to-morrow.” This he said in 
a whisper, but it was a whisper audible to 
the ladies. 

“ Well ; yes ; it’s all right, I dare say,” 
said Sir Griffin. 

“ Well, after all, what is life till a man 
lu\s met and obtained the partner of his 
soul? It is a blank, and the blank be- 
comes every day more and more intolera- 
ble to the miserable solitar3^” 

“ I wonder jmu don’t get married your- 
self,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, who perceived 
that Sir Griffin was rather astray for an 
answer. • ‘ 

“ Ah ! if one could alwaj's be fortunate 
when one loved,” said Mr. Emilius, cast- 
ing his eyes across to Lizzie Eustace. It 
was evident to them all that he did not 
wish to conceal his passion. 

It was the object of Mrs. Carbuncle that 
the lovers should not be left alone togeth- 
er, but that they should be made to think 
that they were passing the evening in af- 
fectionate intercourse. Lucinda hardly 
.spoke, hardly had spoken since her disa- 
greeable struggle with Sir Griffin. He 
said but little, but with Mrs. Carbuncle 
was better humored than usual. Every 
now and then she made little whispered 
communications to him, telling that they 
would be sure to be at the church at eleven 
to the moment, explaining to him what 
would be the extent of Lucinda’s boxes 
for the wedding tour, and assuring him that 
he would find Lucinda’s new maid a treas- 
ure in regard to his own shirts and pocket 


handkerchiefs. She toiled marvellously 
at little^ subjects, always making some al- 
lusion to Lucinda, and never hinting that, 
aught short of EU’sium was in store for 
him. The labor was great ; the task was 
terrible ; but now it was so nearly over ! 
.And to Lizzie she was very courteous, nev- 
er hinting by a word or a look that there 
was any new trouble impending on the 
score of the diamonds. .She, too, as she 
received the greasy compliments of Mr. 
Emilius with pretty smiles, had her mind 
full enough of care. 

At last Sir Griffin went, again kissing 
his bride as he left. Lucinda accepted his 
embrace without a word and almost with- 
out a shudder. “ Eleven to the moment. 
Sir Griffin,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, with 
her best good humor. “ All right,” said 
Sir Griffin as he passed out of the door. 
Lucinda walked across the room and kept 
her ej^es fixed on his retreating figui’e as 
he descended the stairs. Mr. Emilius 
had already departed, with many promises 
of punctuality, and Lizzie now withdrew 
for the night. “ Dear Lizzie, good night,” 
said Mrs. Carbuncle kissing her. 

“ Good night. Lady Eustace,” said Lu- 
cinda. “ I suppose I shall see you to-mor- 
row? ” 

“ See me, of course jmu will see me! 
I shall come into your room with the girls 
after you have had j’^our tea.” The girls 
mentioned were the four bridesmaids, as 
to whom there had been some difficultj^ 
as Lucinda had neither sister nor cousin, 
and had contracted no peculiarly tender 
friendships. But Mrs. Carbuncle had 
arranged it, and four properly-equipped 
young ladies were to be in attendance at 
ten on the morrow. 

Then Lucinda and Mrs. Carbuncle were 
alone. “ Of one thing I feel sure,” said 
Lucinda in a low voice. 

“ \Yhat is that, dear? ” 

“ I shall never see Sir Griffin Tewett 
again.” 

“You talk in that way on purpose to 
break me down at the last moment,” said 
Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ Dear Aunt Jane, 1 would not break 
j'ou down if I could help it. I have strug- 
gled so hard, simply that you might be 
freed from me. We have been very fool- 
ish, both of us; but I would bear all the 
punishment if I could.” 

“ You know that this is nonsense now.” 

“ Very well. 1 only tell you. I know 


304 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


that I shall never see him again. I will 
never trust myself alone in his presence. 
I could not do it. When he touches me 
my whole body is in agony, to be kissed 
by him is madness ! ’ ’ 

“ Lucinda, this is very wicked. You 
are working yourself up to a paroxysm of 
folly.” 

“ Wicked ; yes, I know that I am wick- 
ed. There has been enough of wickedness 
certainly. You don’t suppose that I mean 
to excuse myself? ” 

“Of course you Avill marry Sir Griffin 
to-morrow.” 

“ I shall never be married to him. 
How I shall escape from him — by dying, 
or going mad, or by destroying him — 
God only knows.” Then she paused, 
and her aunt looking into her face almost 
began to fear that she was in earnest. 
But she would not take it as at all in- 
dicating any real result for the morrow. 
The girl had often said nearly the same 
thing before, and had still submitted. 
“ Do you know. Aunt Jane, I don’t think 
I could feel to any man as though I loved 
him. But for this man — Oh God, how 
I do detest him ! I cannot do it.” 

“You had better go to bed, Lucinda, 
and let me come to you in the morning.” 

“ Yes ; come to me in the morning ; 
early.” 

“ I will, at eight.” 

“ I shall know then, perhaps.” 

“ My dear, will you come to my room 
to-night and sleep with me? ” 

“Oh, no. I have ever so many things 
to do. I have papers to burn, and things 
to put away. But come to me at eight. 
Good-night, Aunt Jane.” Mrs. Carbun- 
cle Avent up to her room Avith her, kissed 
her affectionately, and then left her. 

She Avas now really frightened. >V'hat 
would be said of her if she should press 
the marriage forAvard to a completion, 
and if, after that, some terrible tragedy 
should take place betAveen the bride and 
bridegroom? That Lucinda, in spite of 
all that had been said, Avould stand at tlie 
altar, and allow the ceremony to be per- 
formed, she still believed. Those last 
Avords about burning papers and putting 
things away, seemed to imply that the girl 
still thought that she Avould be taken 
away from her present home on the' mor- 
row. But Avhat would come afterward? 
The horror which the bride expressed was, 
as Mrs. Carbuncle well knew, no mock 


feeling, no pretence at antipathy. She 
tried to think of it and to realize what 
might, in truth, be the girl’s action and 
ultimate fate when she should find herself 
in the power of this man Avhom she so 
hated. But had not other girls done the 
same thing, and lived through it all, and 
become fat, indiflerent, and fond of the 
world? It is only the first step that sig- 
nifies. . 

At any rate the thing must go on now ; 
must go on whatever might be the result 
to Lucinda or to ^Irs. Carbuncle herself. 
Y^'es ; it must go on. There was, no 
doubt, very much of bitterness in the 
world for such as them, for persons doom- 
ed by the necessities of their position to a 
continual struggle. It ahvays had been 
so and always would be so. But each bit- 
ter cup must be drained in the hope that 
the next might be sAveeter.. Of course the 
marriage must go on ; though doubtless 
this cup was very bitter. 

More than once in the night Mrs. Car- 
buncle crept up to the door of her niece's 
room, endeavoring to ascertain Avhat 
might be going on AAuthin. At tAVO o’clock, 
while she Avas on the landing, the candle 
was extinguished, and she could hear 
Lucinda put herself to bed. At any rate 
so far things Aveie safe. An indistinct, 
incompleted idea of some possible tragedy 
had flitted across the mind of the poor 
woman, causing her to shake and trem- 
ble, forbidding her, Aveary as she Avas, to 
lie doAvn ; but noAV she told herself at last 
that this Avas an idle phantasy, and she 
went to bed. Of course Lucinda must go 
through with it. It had been her OAvn 
doing, and Sir Griffin Avas not Avorse than 
other men. As she said this to herself, 
Mrs. Carbuncle hardened her heart by re- 
membering that her own married life had 
not been peculiarly happy. 

Exactly at eight on the following morn- 
ing she knocked at her niece’s door and 
Avas at once bidden to enter. “ Come in. 
Aunt Jane.” The words cheered her 
wonderfully. At any rate there had been 
no tragedy as yet, and as she turned the 
handle of the door she felt that, as a mat- 
ter of course, the marriage AVOuld go on 
just like any other marriage. She found 
Lucinda up and dressed, but so dressed 
certainly to shoAV no preparation for a 
wedding toilet. She had on an ordinary 
stufi’ morning frock, and her hair was 
close tucked up and pinned, as it might 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


305 


have been had she already prepared her- 
self for a journey. But what astonished 
Mrs. Carbuncle more than the dress was 
the girl’s manner. She was sitting at a 
table with a book before her, which was 
afterward found to be the Bible, and she 
never turned her head as her aunt entered 
the room. “What, up already,” said 
Mrs. Carbuncle, “ and dressed? ” 

“Yes; I am up, and dressed. I have 
been up ever so long. IIow was I to lie 
in bed on such a morning as this? Aunt 
Jane, I wish you to know as soon as pos- 
sible that no earthly consideration will in- 
duce me to leave this room to-day.” 

“ What nonsense, Lucinda ! ” 

“ Very well ; all the same you might as 
well believe me. I want you to send to 
Mr, Emilius, and to those girls, and to 
the man. And you had better get Lord 
George to let the other people know. I’m 
quite in earnest.” 

And she was in earnest, quite in ear- 
nest, though there was a flightiness about 
her manner which induced Mrs. Carbun- 
cle for awhile to think that she was less 
so than she had been on the previous 
evening. The unfortunate woman re- 
mained with her niece for an hour and a 
lialf, imploring, threatening, scolding, 
and weeping. When the maids came to 
the door, first one maid and then another, 
they were refused entrance. It might still 
be possible, Mrs. Carbuncle thought, that 
she would prevail. But nothing now 
could shake Lucinda or induce her even 
to discuss the subject. She sat there look- 
ing steadfastly at the book — hardly an- 
swering, never defending herself, but pro- 
testing that nothing should induce her to 
leave the room on that day. “ Do you 
want to destroy me?” Mrs. Carbuncle 
said at last. 

“You have destroyed me,” said Lu- 
cinda. 

At half-past nine Lizzie Eustace came 
into the room, and Mrs. Carbuncle, in her 
trouble, thought it better to take other 
counsel. Lizzie therefore was admitted. 

“ Is anything wrong? ” asked Lizzie. 

“ Everything is wrong,” said the aunt. 
“ She says that — she won’t be married.” 

“0, Lucinda ! ” 

“ Pray speak to her. Lady Eustace. 
You see it is getting so late, and she ought 
to be nearly dressed now. Of course she 
must allow herself to be dressed.” 

“ I am dressed,” said Lucinda. 

20 


“ But, dear Lucinda, everybody will be 
waiting for you,” said Lizzie. 

“ Let them wait, till they’re tired. If 
Aunt Jane doesn’t choose to send, it is not 
my fault. 1 shan’t go out of this room 
to-day unless I am carried out. Do you 
want to hear that I have murdered the 
man? ” 

They brought her tea, and endeavored 
to induce her to eat and drink. She would 
take the tea, she said, if they would prom- 
ise to send to put the people off. Mrs. 
Carbuncle so far gave way as to undertake 
to do so, if she would name the next day, 
or the day following, for the wedding. 
But on hearing this she arose almost in a 
majesty of wrath. Neither on this day, 
nor on the next, nor on any following day, 
would she yield herself to the wretch 
whom they had endeavored to force upon 
her. “ She must do it, you know,” said 
Mrs. Carbuncle, turning to Lizzie. 
“You’ll see if 1 must,” said Lucinda, 
sitting square at the table with her eyes 
firmly fixed upon the book 

Then caipe up the servant to say that 
the four bridesmaids were all assembled 
in the drawing-room. When she heard 
this, even Mrs. Carbuncle gave way, and 
threw herself upon the bed and wept. 
“ 0, Lady Eustace, what are we to do? 
Lucinda, you have destroyed me. You 
have destroyed me altogether, after all 
that! have done for you.” 

“ And what has been done to me, do you 
think?” said Lucinda. 

Something must be settled. All the 
servants in the house by this time knew 
that there would be no wedding, and no 
doubt some tidings as to the misadventure 
of the day had already reached the four 
ladies in the drawing-room. “ What am 
I to do? ” said Mrs. Carbuncle, starting 
up from the bed. 

“ I really think you had better send to 
Mr. Emilius,” said Lizzie ; “ and to Lord 
George.” 

“ What am I to say ? Who is there to 
go to? Oh, 1 wish that somebody would 
kill me this minute ! Lady Eustace, would 
you mind going down and telling those 
ladies to go away ? ” 

“ And had I not better send Richard to 
the church? ” 

“ Oh yes ; send anybody, everywhere. I 
don’t know what to do. Oh Lucinda, this 
is the unkindest and the wickedest, and 
most horrible thing that anybody ever 


306 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


did ! I shall never, never be able to hold 
up my head again.” Mrs. Carbuncle was 
completely prostrate, but Lucinda sat 
square at the table, firm as a rock, saying 
nothing, making no excuse for herself, 
with her eyes fixed upon the Bible. 

Lady Eustace carried her message to the 
astonished and indignant bridesmaids, and 
succeeded in sending them back to their 
respective homes. Richard, glorious in new 
livery, forgetting that his flowers were 
still on his breast, ready dressed to attend 
the bride’s carriage, went with his sad 
message, first to the church and then to 
the banqueting-hall in Albemarle street. 

“Not any wedding?” said the head- 
waiter at the hotel. “ I knew they was 
folks as would have a screw loose some- 
wheres. There’s lots to stand for the bill, 
anyways,” he added, as he remembered 
all the tribute. 


CHAPTER LXN. 

ALAS ! 

No attempt was made to send other mes- 
sages from Hertford street than those 
which were taken to the church and to 
the hotel. Sir Griffin and Lord George 
Avent together to the church in a brough- 
am, and on the way the best man rather 
ridiculed the change in life which he sup- 
posed that his friend was about to make. 

“I don’t in the least know how j^ou 
mean to get along,” said Lord George. 

“ Much as other men do, I suppose.” 

“ But you’re always sparring, already.” 

“It’s that old woman that you’re so 
fond of,” said Sir Griffin. “ I don’t mean 
to have any ill-humor from my wife, I can 
tell you. I know who will have the worst 
of it if there is.” 

“ Upon my word, I think you’ll have 
your hands full,” said Lord George. They 
got out at a sort of private door attached 
to the chapel, and were there received by 
the clerk, who wore a very long face. The 
news had already come, and had been 
communicated to Mr. Emilius, who was 
in the vestry. “ Are the ladies here yet? ” 
asked Lord George. The woe-begone clerk 
told them that the ladies were not yet 
there, and suggested that they should see 
Mr. Emilius. Into the presence of Mr. 
Emilius they were led, and then they 
heard the truth. 

“ Sir Griffin,” said Mr. Emilius, holding 


the baronet by the hand, “ I’m sorry to 
have to tell you that there's something 
wrong in Hertford street.” 

“ What’s wrong? ” asked Sir GrifiSn. 

“ You don’t mean to say that Miss Ro- 
anoke is not to be here ? ’ ’ demanded Lord 
George. “ By George, I thought a.'^ much 
— I did indeed.” 

“ I can only tell you what I know, Lord 
George. Mrs. Carbuncle’s servant was 
here ten minutes since. Sir Griffin, before 
I came down, and he told the clerk that — 
that ” 

“What the d did he tell him?” 

asked Sir Griffin. 

“He said that Miss Roanoke had 
changed her mind, and didn’t mean to be 
married at all. That’s all that I can learn 
from what he says. Perhaps you will 
think it best to go up to Hertford street ? ’ ’ 

“ I’ll be if I do,'” said Sir Griffin. 

“lam not in the least surprised,” re- 
peated Lord George. “ Tewett, my boy, 
we might as well go home to lunch, and 
the sooner you’re out of town the better.” 

“I. knew that I should be taken in at 
last by that accursed woman,” said Sir 
Griffin. 

“ It wasn’t Mrs. Carbuncle, if you mean 
that. She’d have given her left hand to 
have had it completed. I rather think 
you’ve had an escape, Grifl" ; and if I were 
you, I’d make the best of it.” Sir Griffin 
spoke not another word, but left the 
church with his friend in the brougham 
that had brought them, and so he disap- 
pears from our story. Mr. Emilius looked 
after him with wistful eyes, regretful for 
his fee. Had the baronet been less coarse 
and violent in his language he would have 
asked for it; but he feared that he might 
be cursed in his own church, before his 
clerk, and abstained. Late in the after- 
noon Lord George, w’hen he had adminis- 
tered comfort to the disappointed bride- 
groom in the shape of a hot lunch, cura- 
90a, and cigars, walked up to Hertford 
street, calling at the hotel in Albemarle 
street on the way. The waiter told him 
all that he knew. Some thirty or forty 
guests had come to the wedding-banquet, 
and had all been sent away wdth tidings 
that the marriage had been — postponed. 
“ You might have told ’em a trifle more 
than that,” said Lord George. “ Post- 
poned was pleasantest, my lord,” said the 
waiter. “ Anyways, that was said, and 
we supposes, my lord, as the things ain’t 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


S07 


wantea now.” Lord George replied that 
as’ far as he knew the things were not 
wanted, and then continued his way up to 
Hertford street. 

At first he saw Lizzie Eustace, upon 
whom the misfortune of the day had had 
a most depressing effect. The wedding 
was to have been the one morsel of pleas- 
ing excitement which would come before 
she underAvent the humble penance to 
which she was doomed. That was frus- 
trated and abandoned, and now she could 
think only of Mr. Camperdown, her cousin 
Frank, and Lady Glencora Palliser. 
‘‘What’s up now?” said Lord George, 
with that disrespect which had alwaj^s ac- 
companied his treatment of her since she 
had told him her secret. “ What’s the 
meaning of all this ? ” 

” I dare say that you knoAV as well as I 
do, my lord.” 

“ I must know a good deal if I do. It 
seems that among you there is nothing 
but one trick upon another.” 

“ I suppose you are speaking of your 
own friends. Lord George. You doubtless 
know much more than I do of Miss Ro- 
anoke’s affairs.” 

“ Does she mean to say that she doesn’t 
mean to marry the man at all? ” 

“ So I understand ; but really you had 
better send for Mrs. Carbuncle.” 

He did send for Mrs. Carbuncle, and af- 
ter some words with her was taken up 
into Lucinda’s room. There sat the un- 
fortunate girl, in the chair from which 
she had not moved since the morning. 
There had come over her face a look of 
fixed but almost idiotic resolution ; her 
mouth was compressed, and her eyes were 
glazed, and she sat twiddling her bodk 
before her with her fingers. She had eaten 
nothing since she had got up, and had 
long ceased to be violent when questioned 
by her aunt. But nevertheless she was 
firm enough when her aunt begged to 
be allowed to write a letter to Sir Griffin, 
explaining that all this had arisen from 
temporary indisposition. “No; it isn’t 
temporary. It isn’t temporary at all. 
You can write to him, but I’ll never come 
out of this room if I am told that I am to 
see him.” 

“What is all this about, Lucinda?” 
said Lord George, speaking in his kindest 
voice. 

“ Is he there? ” said she, turning round 
suddenly. 


“Sir Griffin? no indeed. He has left 
town.” 

“ You’re sure he’s not there. It’s no 
good his coming. If he comes forever and 
ever he shall never touch me again — not 
alive ; he shall never touch me again 
alive.” As she spoke she moved across 
the room to the fireplace and grasped the 
poker in her hand. 

“ Has she been like that all the morn- 
ing?” whispered Lord George. 

“No — not like — she has been quite 
quiet. Lucinda ! ” 

“ Don’t let him come here, then ; that’s 
all. What’s the use? They can’t make 
me marry him. And I Avon’t marry him. 
Everybody has knoAvn that I hated him — 
detested him. 0, Lord George, it has 
been very, very cruel.” 

“ Has it been my fault, Lucinda? ” 

“ She wouldn’t haA'e done it if you had 
told her not. But you Avon’t bring him 
again, will you ? ” 

‘‘ Certainly not. He means to go 
abroad.” 

“ Ah, yes ; that will be best. Let him 
go abroad. He knew it all the time, that 
I hated him. Why did he want me to be 
his wife? If he has gone abroad I will go 
doAvn stairs. But I won’t go out of the 
house. Nothing shall make me go out of 
the house. Are the bridesmaids gone? ” 

“ Long ago,” said Mrs. Carbuncle pite- 
ously. 

“ Then I Avill go doAvn.” And between 
them, they led her into the drawing- 
room. 

“ It is my belief,” said Lord George to 
Mrs. Carbuncle some minutes afterward, 
“ that you have driven her mad.” 

“ Are you going to turn against me? ” 

“It is true. . How you have had the 
heart to go on pressing it upon her, I 
could never understand. I am about as 
hard as a milestone, but I’ll be shot if I 
could have done it. From day to day 1 
thought that you Avould have given way.” 

“ That is so like a man — when it is all 
OA’er to turn upon a Avoman and say that 
she did it.” 

“ Didn’t you do it? I thought you did, 
and that you took a great deal of pride in 
the doing of it. When you made him offer 
to her, down in Scotland, and made her ac- 
cept him, you were so proud that you 
could hardly hold yourself. What will 
you do now? Go on, just as though noth- 
ing had happened? ” 


308 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ I don't know what we shall do. There 
will be so many things to be paid.’* 

“I should think there would, and you 
can hardly expect Sir Griffin to pay for 
them. You’ll have to take her away some- 
where. You’ll find that she can’t remain 
here. And that other woman will be in 
prison before the w’eek’s over, I should 
say, unless she runs away.” 

There was not much of comfort to be 
obtained by any of them from Lord 
George, who was quite as harsh to Mi*s. 
Carbuncle as he had been to Lizzie Eus- 
tace. lie remained in Hertford street for 
an hour, and then took his leave, saying 
that he thought that he also should go 
abroad. “ I did’nt think,” he said, “ that 
anything could have hurt my character 
much ; but upon my word, between you 
and Lady Eustace, I begin to find that in 
every deep there may be a lower depth. 
All the town has given me the credit for 
stealing her lad3’'ship’s necklace, and now 
I shall be mixed up in this mock marriage. 
I shouldn’t wonder if Rooper were to send 
his bill in to me.” (Mr. Rooper was the 
keeper of the hotel in Albemarle street.) 
“ I think I shall follow Sir GriflBn abroad. 
You have made England too hot to hold 
me.” 

And so he left them. ■' * • 

The evening of that day was a terrible 
time to the three ladies in Hertford street, 
and the following day was almost worse. 
Nobody came to see them, and not one of 
them dared to speak of the future. For 
the third day, the Wednesday, Lady Eus- 
tace had made her appointment with Mr. 
Camperdown, having written to the attor- 
ney, in compliance with the pressing ad- 
vice of Major Mackintosh, to name an 
hour. Mr. Camperdown had written 
again, sending his compliments, and say- 
ing that he would receive Lady Eustace at 
the time fixed by her. The prospect of 
this interview was very bad, but even this 
was hardly so oppressive as the actual ex- 
'tsting wretchedness of that house. Mrs. 
Carbuncle, whom Lizzie had alwa3's 
known as high-spirited, bold, and almost 
domineering, was altogether prostrated 
by her misfortunes. She was queru- 
lous, lachrymose, and utterly despondent. 
From what Lizzie now learned, her hostess 
was enveloped in a mass of debt which 
would have been hopeless even had Lu- 
cinda gone ofi" as a bride; but she had 


been willing to face all that with the ob- 
ject of establishing her niece. She could 
have expected nothing from the marriage 
for herself. She well knew that Sir Grif- 
fin would neither pay her debts nor give 
her a home nor lend her money. But to 
have married the girl who was in her 
charge would have been in itself a success, 
and would have in some sort repaid her 
for her trouble. There would have been 
something left to show for her expendi- 
ture of time and money. But now there 
■was nothing around her but failure and 
dismay. The very servants in the house 
seemed to know that ordinary respect was 
hardlj’’ demanded from them. ^ 

As to Lucinda, Lizzie felt, from the very 
hour in which she first saw her, on the 
morning of the intended wedding, that 
her mind was astray. She insisted on 
passing the time up in her own room, and 
alway^s sat with the Bible before her. At 
every knock at the door, or ring at the 
bell, she would look round suspiciously, 
and once she whispered into Lizzie’s ear 
that if ever “he” should come there 
again she would “ give him a kiss w'ith a 
vengeance.” On the Tuesday Lizzie re- 
commended Mrs. Carbuncle to get medi- 
cal advice, and at last they sent for Mr. 
Emilius that they might ask counsel of 
him. Mr. Emilius was full of smiles and 
consolation, and still allowed his golden 
hopes as to some Elysian future to crop 
out ; but he did acknowledge at last, in a 
whispered conference with Lady Eustace, 
that somebody ought to see Miss Roanoke. 
Somebody did see Miss Roanoke, and the 
doctor who was thus appealed to shook 
his head. Perhaps Miss Roanoke had 
better be taken into the country for a 
little while. 

“Dear Lady Eustace,” said Mrs. Car- 
buncle, “now 3"ou can be a friend in- 
deed,” meaning, of course, that an invi- 
tation to Portray Castle would do more 
than could anything else toward making 
straight the crooked things of the hour. 
Mrs. Carbuncle, when she made the re- 
quest, of coui-se knew of Lizzie's coming 
troubles ; but let them do what they could 
to Lizzie, they could not take away her 
house. 

But Lizzie felt at once that this would 
not suit. “ Ah, Mrs. Carbuncle,” she 
said, “ you do not know the condition 
which I am in myself! ” 


THE EUSTACE DIAJMONDS. 


309 


CHAPTER LXXI. 

LIZZIE IS TUREATENED WITH THE TREAD- 
MILL. 

Early on the Wednesday morning, two 
or three hours before the time fixed for 
Lizzie’s visit to Mr. Camperdown, her 
cousin Frank came to call upon her. She 
presumed him to be altogether ignorant 
of all that Major Mackintosh had known, 
and therefore endeavored to receive him as 
though her heart were light. 

“Oh Fi-ank,” said she, “ you have 
heard of our terrible misfortune here?” 

“ I have heard so much,” said he grave- 
ly, “ that T hardly know what to believe, 
and what not to believe.” 

“ 1 mean about ^liss Roanoke’s mar- 
riage ? ” 

“Oh yes; 1 have been told that it is 
broken olf.” 

Then Lizzie, with affected eagerness, 
gave him a description of the whole af- 
fair, declaring how horrible, how tragic, 
the thing had been from its very com- 
mencement. “ Don’t you remember, 
Frank, down at Portray, they never really 
cared for each other? They became en- 
gaged the very time you were there.” 

“ I have not forgotten it.” 

“The truth is, Lucinda Roanoke did 
not understand what real love meant. 
She had never taught herself to compre- 
hend what is the very essence of love, 
and as for Sir Griffin Tewett, though he 
was anxious to marry her, he never had 
any idea of love at all. Did not you al- 
ways feel that, Frank? ” 

“ I’m sorry you have had so much to 
do with them, Lizzie.” 

“ There’s no help for spilt milk, Frank ; 
and, as for that, I don’t suppose that Mrs. 
Carbuncle can do me any harm. The 
man is a baronet, and the marriage would 
have been respectable. Miss Roanoke 
has been eccentric, and that has been 
the long and the short of it. What 
will be done, Frank, with all the presents 
that were bought?” 

“ I haven’t an idea. They’d better be 
sold to pay the bills. But I came to you, 
Lizzie, about another piece of business.” 

“ What piece of business ? ” she asked, 
looking him in the face for a moment, 
trying to be bold, but trembling as she 
did so. She had believed him to be igno- 
rant of her story, but she had soon per- 
ceived, from his manner to her, that he 
knew it all, or at least that he knew so 


much that she would have to tell him all 
the rest. There could be no longer any 
secret with him. Indeed there could be 
no longer any secret with anybody. She 
must be prepared to encounter a world 
accurately informed as to every Oetail of 
the business which, for the last three 
months, had been to her a burden so op- 
pressive that, at some periods, she ha<I 
sunk altogether under the weight. She 
had already endeavored to realize her po- 
sition, and to make clear to herself the 
condition of her future life. Lord George 
had talked to her of perjury and prison, 
and had tried to frighten her by making 
the very worst of her faults. According 
to him she would certainly be made to 
pay for the diamonds, and would be en- 
abled to do so by saving her income dur- 
ing a long term of incarceration. Thh? 
was a terrible prospect of things ; and 
she had almost believed in it. Then the 
major had come to her. The major, she 
thought was the truest gentleman she had 
ever seen, and her best friend. Ah — if it 
had not been for the wife and seven child- 
ren, there might still have been comfort ! 
That which had been perjury with Lord 
George, had by the major been so simply, 
and yet so correctly called an incorrect 
version of facts ! And so it was — and no 
more than that. Lizzie, in defending her- 
self to herself, felt that, though cruel mag- 
istrates and hard-hearted lawyers and 
pig-headed jurymen might call her little 
fault by the name of perjury, it could not 
be real, wicked perjury,, because the dia- 
monds had been her own. She had de 
frauded nobody — had wished to defraud 
nobody — if the people had only left her 
alone. It had suited her to give — an in- 
correct version of facts, because people 
had troubled themselves about her affairs ; 
and now all this had come upon her! 
The major had comforted her very greatly ; 
but still — what would the world say? 
Even he, kind and comfortable as he had 
been, had made her understand that she 
must go into court and confess the incor- 
rectness of her own version. She believed 
every word the major said. Ah, there 
was a man worthy to be believed — a man 
of men ! They could not take away her 
income or her castle. They could not 
make her pay for the diamonds. But 
still — what would the world say? And 
what would ,her lovers say ? What one of 
her lovers thought proper to say, she had 


310 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


already heard. Lord George had spoken 
out, and had made himself very disagree- 
able. Lord Fawn, she knew, would with- 
draw the renewal of his offer, let her an- 
swer to him be what’ it might. But what 
would Frank say ? And now Frank was 
with her, looking into her face with severe 
eyes. 

She was more than ever convinced that 
the life of a widow was not suited for her 
and that, among her several lovers, she 
must settle her wealth and her heart up- 
on some special lover. Neither her wealth 
nor her heart would be in any way injur- 
ed by the confession which she was pre- 
pared to make. But then men are so tim- 
id, so false, and so blind ! In regard to 
Frank, whom she now believed that she 
ha:d loved with all the warmth of her 
young affections, from the first moment in 
which she had seen him after Sir Florian’s 
death — she had been at great trouble to 
clear the way for him. She knew of his 
silly engagment to 'Lucy Morris, and was 
willing to forgive him that offence. She 
knew that he could not marry Lucy, be- 
cause of his pennilessness and his indebt- 
edness; and therefore she had taken the 
trouble to see Lucy, with the view of maK- 
iug things straight on that side. Lucy 
had, of course, been rough with her, and 
ill-mannered, but Lizzie thought that, up- 
on the whole, she had succeeded. Lucy 
was rough and ill-mannered, but was, at 
the same time, what the world calls good, 
and would hardly persevere after what 
had been said to her. Lizzie was sure 
that, a month since, her cousin would 
have yielded himself to her willingly, if 
he could only have freed himself from 
Lucy Morris. But now, just in this very 
nick of time, which was so momentous 
to her, the police had succeeded in un- 
ravelling her secret, and there sat Frank, 
looking at her with stern, ill-natured 
eyes, like an enemy rather than a lover. 

“ What piece of business ? ” she asked, 
in answer to his question. She must be 
bold — if she could. She must brazen it 
out with him, if only she could be strong 
enough to put on her brass in his pre- 
sence. He had been so stupidly chival- 
rous in believing all her stories about the 
robbery when nobody else had quite be- 
lieved them, that she felt that she had 
before her a task that was very disagree- 
able and very difficult. She looked up at 
him, struggling to be bold, and then her 


glance sank before his gaze and fell upon 
the floor. 

“ r do not at all wish to pry into your 
secrets,” he said. 

Secrets from him ! Some such excla- 
mation was on her lips, when she remem- 
bered that her special business, at the 
present moment, was to acknowledge a 
secret which had been kept from him. 

“ It Ls unkind of you to speak to me in 
that way,” said she. 

“ I am quite in earnest. I do nqt wish 
to pry into your secrets. But I hear ru- 
mors which seem to be substantiated ; 
and though, of course, I could stay away 
from you ” 

“ Oh — whatever happens, pray, pray do 
not stay away from me. AVhere am I tj 
look for advice if you stay away from 
me? ” 

“ That is all very well, Lizzie.” 

“ Ah, Frank, if you desert me, lam un- 
done.” 

“It is of course true that some of the 
police have been with you lately? ” 

“ Major Mackintosh was here, about 
the end of last week — a most kind man, 
altogether a gentleman, aivi I was so glad 
to see him.” 

“ What made him come? ” 

“What made him come?” How 
should she tell her story? “ Oh, he came 
— of course, about the robbery. They have 
found out everything. It was the jewel- 
ler, Benjamin, who concocted it all. 
That horrid, sly girl I had. Patience Crab- 
stick, put him up to it. And there were 
two regular housebreakers. They have 
found it all out at last.” 

“ So I hear.” 

“ And Major iMackintosh came to tell 
me about it. 

“ But the diamonds are gone ! ” 

“Oh yes — those weary , weary diamonds. 
Do you know, Frank, that, though they 
were my own, as much as the coat you 
wear is your own, I am glad they are gone, 
then I am glad that the police have not found 
them. They tormented me so that I hated 
them. Don’tyou remember that I toldyou 
how I longed to throw them into the sea, 
and be rid of them forever? ” 

“ That, of course, was a joke.” 

“ It was no joke, Frank. It was sol- 
emn, serious truth.” 

“ What I want to know is— where were 
they stolen? ” 

That of course was the question which 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


311 


hitherto Lizzie Eustace had answered by 
an incorrect version of facts, and now she 
must give the true version. She tried to 
put a bold face upon it, but it was very 
difficult. A face bold with brass she 
could not assume. Perhaps a little bit of 
acting might serve her turn, and a face 
that should be tender rather than bold. 
“ Oh Frank ! ” she exclaimed, bursting 
into tears. 

“ I always supposed that they were tak- 
en at Carlisle,” said Frank. Lizzie fell 
on her knees, at his feet, with her hands 
clasped together, and her one long lock of 
hair hanging down so as to touch his arm. 
Her eyes were bright with tears, but were 
not, as yet, wet and red with weeping. 
Was not this confession enough? Was 
he so hard-hearted as to make her tell her 
own disgrace in spoken words ? Of course 
he knew well enough now, when the dia- 
monds had been stolen. If he were pos- 
sessed of any tenderness, any tact, any 
manliness, he would go on, presuming 
that question to have been answered. 

“ 1 don’t quite understand it alj,” he 
said, laying his hand softly upon her 
shoulder. “ I have been led to make so 
many statements to other people, which 
now seem to have been — incorrect ! It 
was only the box that was taken at Car- 
lisle?” 

“ Only the box.” She could answer* 
that question. 

“ But the thieves thought that the dia- 
monds were in the box ? ” 

“ I suppose so. But, oh Frank, don’t 
cross-question me about it. If you could 
know what I have suffered, y^ou would 
not punish me any more. I have got to 
go to Mr. Camperdown’s this very day. 
I offered to do that at once, and I shan’t 
have strength to go through it if you are 
not kind to me now. Dear, dear Frank — 
do be kind to me.” 

And he was kind to her. He lifted her 
up to the sofa and did not ask her anoth- 
er question about the necklace. Of course 
she had lied to him and to all the world. 
From the very commencement of his inti- 
macy with her, he had known that she 
was a liar, and what else could he have 
expected but lies? As it happened, this 
particular lie had been very big, very effi- 
cacious, and the cause of boundless troub- 
les. It had been wholly unnecessary, and, 
from the first, though injurious to many, 
more injurious to her than to any other. 


He himself had been injured, but it seem- 
ed to him now that she had absolutely 
ruined herself. And all this had been 
done for nothing — had been done, as he 
thought, that Mr. Camperdowu might be 
kept in the dark, whereas all the light in 
the world would have assisted Mr. Camp- 
erdown nothing. He brought to mind, 
as he stood over her, all those scenes 
which she had so successfully i)erformed 
in his presence since she had come to 
London — scenes in which the robbery in 
Carlisle had been discussed between them. 
She had on these occassions freely express- 
ed her opinion about the necklace, saying 
in a low whisper, with a pretty little 
shrug of her shoulders, that she presumed 
it to be impossible that Lord George 
should have been concerned in the robbery. 
Frank had felt, as she said so, that some 
suspicion was intended by her to be at- 
tached to Lord George. She had wonder- 
ed whether Mr. Camperdown had known 
anything about it. She had hoped that 
Lord Fawn would now be satisfied. She 
had been quite convinced that Mr. Ben- 
jamin had the diamonds. She had been 
indignant tliat the police had not traced 
the property. She had asked in another 
whisper — a very low whisper indeed — 
whether it was possible that Mrs. Carbun- 
cle should know more about it than she 
was pleased to tell? And all the while 
the necklace had been lying in her own 
desk, and she had put it there with her 
own hands ! 

It was marvellous to him that the wom- 
an could have been so false and have sus- 
tained her falsehood so well. And this 
was his cousin, his well-beloved; as a 
cousin, certainly well-beloved ; and there 
had doubtless been times in which he had 
thought that he would make her his wife ! 
lie could not but smile as he stood looking 
at her, contemplating all the confusion 
which she had caused, and thinking how 
very little the disclosure of her iniquity 
seemed to confound herself. “ Oh, Frank, 
do not laugh at me,” she said. 

“ I am not laughing, Lizzie ; I am only 
wondering.” 

“ And now, Frank, what had I better 
do?” 

“Ah, that is difficult, is it not? You 
see I hardly know all the truth yet. I do 
not want to know more, but how can 1 ad- 
vise you?” 

“I thought you knew everything.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


iJl2 


“ I don’t suppose anybody can do any- 
thing to you.” 

“ Major Mackintosh says that nobody 
can. He quite understands that they were 
my own property, and that I had a right 
to keep them in my desk if 1 pleased. 
Why was I to tell everybody where they 
were? Of course I was foolish, and now 
they are lost. It is I that have suffered. 
Major Mackintosh quite understands that, 
and says that nobody can do anything to 
me ; only I must go to Mr. Camperdown.” 

“ You will have to be examined again 
before a magistrate.” 

•‘Yes; I suppose I must be examined. 
You will go with me, Frank, won’t you?” 
He winced, and made no immediate reply. 
“ I don’t mean to Mr. Camperdown, but 
before the magistrate. Will it be in a 
court ? ” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ The gentleman came here before. 
Couldn’t he come here again? ” Then he 
explained to her the difference of her pres- 
ent position, and in doing so he did say 
something of her iniquity. He made her 
underetand that the magistrate had gone 
out of his way at the last inquiry, believ- 
ing her to be a lady who had been griev- 
ously wronged, and one, therefore, to whom 
much consideration was due. “ And I 
have been grievously wronged,” said Liz- 
zie. But now she would be required to 
tell the truth in opposition to the false evi- 
dence which she had formerly given ; and 
she would herself be exempted from pros- 
ecution for perjury only on the ground 
that she would be called on to criminate 
herself in giving evidence against crimi- 
nals whose crimes had been deeper than 
her own. “ I suppose they can’t quite 
eat me,” she said, smiling through her 
tears. 

“ No ; they won’t eat you,” he replied 
gravely. 

“ And you will go with me? ” 

“ Yes ; I suppose I had better do so.” 

“ Ah ; that will be so nice.” The idea 
of the scene at the police-court was not at 
all “ nice ” to Frank Greystock. “ I shall 
not mind what they say to me as long as 
you are by my side. Everybody will know 
that they were my own, won’t they ? ” 

“ And there will be the trial after- 
ward.” 

“ Another trial? ” Then he explained 
to her the course of affairs ; that the men 
might not improbably be tried at Carlisle 


for stealing the box, and again in London 
for stealing the diamonds ; that two dis- 
tinct acts of burglary had been committed, 
and that her evidence would be required 
on both occasions. He told her also that 
her attendance before the magistrate on 
Friday would only be a preliminary cere- 
mon3% and that before the thing was over 
she would doubtless be doomed to bear a 
great deal of annoyance, and to answer 
very many disagreeable questions. “ I 
shall care for nothing if you will only be 
at my side,” she exclaimed. 

He was very urgent with her to go to 
Scotland as soon as her examination before 
the magistrates should be over, and was 
much astonished at the excuse she made 
for not doing so. Mrs. Carbuncle had bor- 
rowed all her ready money ; but as she 
was now in Mrs. Carbuncle’s house she 
could repay herself a portion of the loinn 
by remaining there and eating it out. She 
did not exactly say how much Mrs. Car- 
buncle had borrowed, but she left an im- 
pression on Frank’s mind that it was about 
ten tinies the actual sum. With this ex- 
cuse he was not satisfied, and told her that 
she must go to Scotland, if only for the 
sake of escaping from the Carbuncle con- 
nection. She promised to obey him if he 
would be her convoy. The Easter holi- 
days were just now at hand, and he could 
notrefuseon thepleaof time. “Oh, Frank, 
do not refuse me this ; only think how ter- 
ribly forlorn is my position ! ” He did not 
refuse, but he did not quite promise. He 
was still tender-hearted toward her in spite 
of her enormities. One iniquity, perhaps 
her worst iniquity, he did not yet know. 
He had not as yet heard of her disinter- 
ested appeal to Lucy Morris. 

When he left her she was almost joyous 
for a few minutes, till the thought of her 
coming interview with Mr. Camperdown 
again overshadowed her. She had dreaded 
two things chiefly — her first interview 
with her cousin Frank after he should 
have learned the truth, and those perils in 
regard to perjury with which Lord George 
had threatened her. Both, these bugbeai-s 
had now vanished. That dear man, the 
major, had told her that there would be 
no such perils, and her cousin Frank had 
not seemed to think so very much of her 
lies and treachery ! He had still been af- 
fectionate with her ; he would support 
her before the magistrate, and would 
travel with her to Scotland. And after 


THE EUSTACE UIAMONDS. 


that who could tell what might come 
next? How foolish she had been to 
trouble herself as she had done — almost to 
choke herself with an agony of fear, be- 
cause she had feared detection. Now she 
was detected, and what had come of* it? 
That great officer of justice, Major Mack- 
intosh, had been almost more than civil to 
her; and her dear cousin Frank was stil^ 
a cousin, dear as ever. People, after all, 
did not think so very much of peijury — of 
perjury such as hers, committed in regard 
to one’s own property. It was that odious 
Ix)rd George who had frightened her in- 
stead of comforting, as he Avould have 
done had there been a spark of the true 
Corsair poetry about him. She did not 
feel comfortably content as to what might 
be said of her by Lady Glencora and the 
Duke of Omnium, but she was almost in- 
clined to think that Lady Glencora would 
support her. Lady Glencora was no poor, 
mealy-mouthed thing, but a woman of 
the world, who understood what was what. 
Lizzie no doubt wished that the trials and 
examinations were over ; but her money 
wiis safe. They could not take away Por- 
tray, nor could they rob her of four thou- 
sand a year. As for the rest, she could 
live it down. 

She had ordered the carriage to take 
her to Mr. Camperdown’s chambers, and 
now she dressed herself for the occasion, 
lie should not be made to think, at any 
rate by her outside appearance, that she 
was ashamed of herself. But before she 
started she had just a word with Mrs. 
Carbuncle. “ I think I shall go down to 
Scotland on Saturday,” she said, pro- 
claiming her news not in the most gra- 
cious manner. 

“ That -is if they let you go,” said Mrs. 
Carbuncle. 

“ What do you mean? Who is to i)re- 
vent me? ” 

“ The police. I know all about it. Lady 
Eustace, and you need not look like that. 
Ijord George informs me that you will 
— probably be locked up to-day or to- 
morrow.” 

“ Lord George is a story-teller. I don’t 
believe he ever said so. And if he did, he 
knows nothing about it.” 

“ lie ought to know, considering all 
that you have made him suffer. That you 
should have gone on with the necklace in 
your own box all the time, letting people 
think that he had taken it, and accept- 


r)id 

ing his attentions all the while, is what 1 
cannat understand ! And however you 
were able to look those people at Carlisle 
in the face, passes me ! Of course. Lady 
Eustace, j^ou can’t stay here after what 
has occurred.” 

“ I shall stay just as long as I like.” 

“ Poor, dear Lucinda ! I do not wonder 
that she should be driven beyond herself 
by so horrible a story. The feeling that 
she has been living all this time in the 
same house with a woman who had de- 
ceived all the police — all the police — has 
been to much for her. I know it has been 
almost too much for me.” And yet, as 
Lizzie at once understood, Mrs. Carbuncle 
knew nothing now which she had not 
known when she made her petition to be 
taken to Portray. And this was the wom- 
an, too, who had borrowed her money last 
week, whom she had entertained for 
months at Portray, and who had pretended 
to be her bosom-friend. “You are quite 
right in getting off to Scotland as soon as 
possible — if they will let you go,” contin- 
ued Mrs. Carbuncle. “ Of course you 
could not stay here. Up to Friday night 
it can be permitted ; but the servants had 
better Avait upon you in your own rooms.” 

“ IIow dare you talk to me in that 
way?” screamed Lizzie. 

“ When a woman has committed per- 
juiy,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, holding up 
both her hands in awe and grief, “ nothing 
too bad can possibly be said to her. You 
are amenable to the outraged laws of the 
country, and it is my belief that they can 
keep you upon the tread-mill and bread 
and water for months and months, if not 
forj’ears.” Having pronounced this ter- 
rible sentence, Mrs. Carbuncle stalked 
out of the room. “ That they can seques- 
ter j-our property for your creditor I 
knoAV,” she said, returning for a moment 
and putting her head within the door. 

The carriage was ready, and it was time 
for Lizzie to start if she intended to keep 
her appointment with Mr. Camperdown. 
She Avas much flustered and AA'eakened by 
Mrs. Carbuncle’s ill-usage, and had diffi- 
culty in restraining herself from tears. 
And yet what the woman had said was 
false from beginning to end. The maid, 
who was the successor of Patience Crab- 
stick, was to accompany her, and as she 
passed through the hall she so far recov- 
ered herself as to be able to conceal her 
dismay from the servants. 


CHAPTER LXXn. 
lizzie’s triumphs. 

E EPORTS had, of course, reached Mr. 

Camperdown of the true story of the 
Eustace diamonds. He had learned that 
the Jew jeweller had made a determined 
set at them, having in the first place hired 
housebreakers to steal them at Carlisle, 
and having again hired the same house- 
breakers to steal them from the house in 
Hertford street, as soon as he knew that 
Lady Eustace had herself secreted them. 
By degrees this information had reached 
him, but not in a manner to induce him 
to declare himself satisfied with the truth. 
But now Lady Eustace was coming to 
him — as he presumed, to confess every- 
thing. 

When he first heard that the diamonds 
had been stolen at Carlisle, he was eager, 
with Mr. Eustace, in contending that the 
widow’s liability in regard to the prop- 
erty was not at all the less because she 
had managed to lose it through her own 
pig-headed obstinacy. He consulted his 
trusted friend, Mr. Dove, on the occasion, 
making out another case for the barrister, 
and Mr. Dove had opined that if it could 
be first proved that the diamonds were the 
property of the estate and not of Lady 
Eustace, and afterwards proved that they 
had been stolen through her laches, then 
could the Eustace estate recover the value 
from her estate. As she had carried the 
diamonds about with her in an absurd 
manner, her responsibility might probably 
be established ; but the non-existence of 
ownership by her must be first declared 
by a Vice-Chancellor, with probability of 
appeal to the Lords J ustices and to the 
House of Lords. A bill in Chancery must 
be filed, in the first place, to have the 
question of ownership settled ; and then, 
should the estate be at length declared the 
owner, restitution of the property which 
had been lost through the lady’s fault 
must be sought at common law. 

That had been the opinion of the Turtle 
Dove, and Mr. Camperdown had at once 
submitted to the law of his great legal 
mentor. But John Eustace had positively 
declared when he heard it that no more 


money should be thrown away in looking 
after property which would require two 
lawsuits to establish, and which when es- 
tablished might not be recovered. “ How 
can we make her pay ten thousand 
pounds? She might die first,” said John 
Eustace — and Mr. Camperdown had been 
forced to yield. Then came the second 
robbery, and gradually there was spread 
about a report that the diamonds had 
been in Hertford street all the time ; that 
they had not been taken at Carlisle, but 
certainly had been stolen at last. 

Mr. Camperdown was again in a fever, 
and again had recourse to Mr. Dove and 
to John Eustace. He learned from the 
police all that they would tell him, and 
now the whole truth was to be divulged 
to him by the chief culprit herself. For. 
to the mind of Mr. Camperdown the two 
housebreakers, and Patience Crabstick, 
and even Mr. Benjamin himself, were 
white as snow compared with the black- 
ness of Lady Eustace. In his estimation 
no punishment could be too great for her, 
and yet he began to understand that she 
would escape scot-free! Her evidence 
would be needed to convict the thieves, 
and she could not be prosecuted for per- 
jury when once she had been asked for 
her evidence. “After all, she has only 
told a fib about her own property,” said 
the Turtle Dove. “About property not 
her own,” replied Mr. Camperdown stout- 
ly. “ Her own till the contrary shall have 
been proved ; her own for all purposes of 
defence before a -jury, if she were prose- 
cuted now. Were she tried for the per- 
jury, your attempt to obtain possession of 
the diamonds would be all so much in her 
favor.” With infinite regrets, Mr. Camp- 
erdown began to perceive that nothing 
could be done to her. 

But she was to come to him and let him 
know from her owm lips, facts of w'hieli 
nothing more than rumor had yet reached 
him. He had commenced his bill in 
Chancery, and had hitherto stayed pro- 
ceedings simply because it had been re- 
ported — falsely, as it now appeared — that • 
the diamonds had been stolen at Carlisle. 
Major Mackintosh, in his desire to use 
Lizzie’s evidence against the thieves, had 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


recommended her to tell the whole truth 
openly to those who claimed the property 
on behalf of her husband’s estate ; and 
now, for the first time in her life, this odi- 
ous womart was to visit him in his own 
chambers. 

He did not think it expedient to receive 
her alone. He consulted his mentor, Mr. 
Dove, and his client, John Eustace, and 
the latter consented to be present. It 
was suggested to Mr. Dove that he might, 
on so peculiar an occasion as this, venture 
to depart from the established rule, and 
visit the attorney on his own quarter- 
deck ; but he smiled, and explained that, 
though he was altogether superior to any 
such prejudice as that, and would not ob- 
ject at all to call on his friend, Mr. Cam- 
I)erdown, could any good effect arise from 
liis doing so, he considered that were he 
to be present on this occasion he would 
simply assist in embarrassing the poor 
lady. 

On this very morning, while Mrs. Car- 
buncle was abusing Lizzie in Hertford 
street, John Eustace and Mr. Camper- 
down were in ^Mr. Dove’s chambers, 
whither they had gone to tell him of the 
coming interview. The Turtle Dove was 
sitting back in his chair, with his head 
leaning forward as though it were goipg 
to drop from his neck, and the two visit- 
ors were listening to his words. “ Be 
merciful, I should say,” suggested the 
barrister. John Eustace was clearly of 
opinion that they ought to be merciful. 
Mr. Camperdown did not look merciful. 
“ What can you get by harassing the 
jx)or,weak, ignorant creature? ” continued 
Mr. Dove. “She has hankered after her 
bauble, and has told falsehoods in her ef- 
forts to keep it. Have you never heard 
of older persons, and more learned per- 
sons, and persons nearer to ourselves, who 
have done the same?” At that moment 
there was presumed to be great rivalry, 
not unaccompanied by intrigue, among 
certain leaders of the learned profession, 
with reference to various positions of high 
honor and emolument, vacant or expected 
to be vacant. A Lord Chancellor was 
about to resign, and a Lord Justice had 
died. Whether a somewhat unpopular 
Attorney-General should be forced to sat- 
isfy himself with the one place, or allowed 
to wait for the other, had been debated in 
all the newspapers. It was agreed that 
there was a middle course in reference to 


J15 

a certain second-class chief-justiceshii) — 
only that the present second-class chief- 
justice objected to shelving himself. There 
existed considerable jealousy, and some 
statements had been made which were 
not, perhaps, strictly founded on fact. It 
Avas understood both by the attorney and 
by the member of Parliament, that the 
Turtle Dove AA’as referring to these circum- 
stancas when he spoke of baubles and 
falsehoods, and of learned persons near to 
themselves. He himself had hankered af- 
ter no bauble, but, as is the case with 
many men and Avomen who are free from 
such hankerings, he Avas hardly free from 
that dash of malice which the possession 
of such things in the hands of others is so 
prone to excite. “ Spare her,” said Mr. 
Dove. “ There is no longer any material 
question as to the property, which seems 
to be gone irrecoverably. It is, upon the 
Avhole, well for the Avorld, that property 
so fictitious as diamonds should be subject 
to the risk of such annihilation. As far 
as we are concerned, the property is anni- 
hilated, and I Avould not harass the poor, 
ignorant, young creature.” 

As Eustace and the attorney Avalked 
across from the old to the neAV square, the 
former declared that he quite agreed with 
Mr. Dove. “ In the first place, Mr. Camp- 
erdown, she is my brother’s Avidow.” 
Mr. Camperdown Avith soitoav admitted 
the fact. “ And she is the mother of the 
head of our family. It should not be for 
us to degrade her ; but rather to protect 
her from degradation, if that be possible.” 
“ I heartily wish she had got her merits 
before your poor brother ever saAV her,” 
said Mr. CamperdoA\m. 

Lizzie, in her fears, had been very punc- 
tual ; and Avhen the two gentlemen reach- 
ed the door leading up to Mr. Camper- 
doAvn’s chambers, the carriage was al- 
ready standing there. Lizzie had come 
up the stairs and had been delighted at 
hearing that Mr. Camperdown was out, 
and would be back in a moment. She in- 
stantly resolved that it did not become 
her to wait. She had kept her appoint- 
ment, had not found Mr. Camperdown at 
home, and would be off as fast as her car- 
riage wheels could take her. But, unfor- 
tunately, while with a gentle murmur she 
was explaining to the clerk hoAV impossi- 
ble it Avas that she should AA’ait for a law- 
yer who did not keep his own appoint- 
ment, John Eustace and Mr. Camperdown 


316 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


appeared upon the landing, and she was 
at once convoyed into the attorney’s par- 
ticular room. 

Lizzie, who always dressed well, was 
now attired as became a lady of rank, who 
had four thousand a year, and W’as the in- 
timate friend of Lady Glencora Palliser. 
When last she saw Mr. Camperdown she 
had been arrayed for a long, dusty, sum- 
mer journey down to Scotland, and nei- 
ther by her outside garniture nor by her 
manner had she then been able to exact 
much admiration. She had been taken 
by surprise ir^ the street, and was fright- 
ened. Now, in difficulty though she was, 
she resolved that she would hold up her 
head and be very brave. She was a little 
taken aback when she saw her brother-in- 
law, but she strove hard to carry herself 
with confidence. “ Ah, John,” she said, 
“ I did not expect to find you with Mr. 
CamperdoAvn.” 

“I thought it best that I should be 
here, as a friend,” he said. 

“ It makes it much pleasanter for me, 
of course,” said Lizzie. “ I am not quite 
sure that Mr. Camperdown will allow me 
to regard him as a friend.” 

“ You have never had any reason to re- 
gard me as your enemy. Lady Eustace,” 
said Mr. Camperdown. “ Will you take 
a seat? I understand that 3'ou wish to 
state the circumstances under which the 
Eustace family diamonds were stolen while 
they were in jmur hands.” 

“ My own diamonds, Mr. Camper- 
down.” 

“ 1 cannot admit that for a moment, my 
lady.” 

“ What does it signify? ” said Eustace. 
“ The wretched stones are gone foreA'er; 
and Avhether they were, of right, the prop- 
erty of my sister-in-law or of her son , can- 
not matter now.” 

Mr. Camperdown was irritated and 
shook his head. It cut him to the heart 
that everybody should take the part of the 
wicked, fraudulent woman who had caused 
him such infinite trouble. Lizzie saw her 
opportunity, and was bolder than ever. 
“ You will never get me to acknowledge 
that they were not my own,” she said. 
“My husband gave them to me, and I 
know that they were my own.” 

“ They have been stolen, at any rate,” 
said the lawyer. 

“ Yes ; they have been stolen.” 

“ And now will j^ou tell us how? ” 


Lizzie looked round upon her brother 
in-law and sighed. She had never yet 
told the storj-^ in all its nakedness, al- 
though it had been three or four times ex- 
tracted from her by admission. She 
paused, hoping that questions might be 
asked her which she could answer by easy 
monosyllables, but not a word was uttered 
to help. “ I suppose you know all about 
it,” she said at last. 

“I know nothing about it,” said Mr. 
Camperdown. 

“We heard that your jewel-case was 
taken out of your room at Carlisle and 
broken open,” said Eustace. 

“ So it W'as. They broke into my room 
in the dead of night, when I was in bed 
and fast asleep, and took the case away. 
When the morning came everybody rush- 
ed into my room, and I was so frightened 
that I did not know what I was doing. 
How would your daughter bear it if two 
men had cut away the locks and got into 
her bedroom when she was asleep ? You 
don’t think about that at all.” 

“And where was the necklace? ” ask- 
ed Eustace. 

Lizzie remembered that her friend the 
major had specially advised her to tell the 
whole truth to Mr. Camperdown, sug- 
gesting that by doing so she Avould go far 
toward saving herself from any prosecu- 
tion. “It was under my pillow,” she 
whispered. 

“ And why did j^ou not tell the magis- 
trate that it had been under your pillow? ” 

Mr. Camperdown ’s voice, as he put to 
her this vital question, was severe, and 
almost justified the little burst of sobs 
which came forth as a prelude to Lizzie’s 
answer. “I did not know what I w^as 
doing. I don’t know what you expect 
from me. You liad been persecuting me 
ever since Sir Florian’s death, about the 
diamonds, and I didn’t knoAV what I w'as 
to do. They Avere my own, and I thought 
I Avas not obliged to tell everybody Avhere 
I kept them. There are things Avhich no- 
body tells. If I were to ask you all your 
secrets would 3'ou tell them? When Sir 
Walter Scott Avas asked whether he wrote 
the novels, he didn’t tell.” 

“ He was not upon his oath. Lady Eu- 
stace.” 

“ He did take his oath, eA’er so many 
times. I don’t knoAV what difference an 
oath makes. People ain’t obliged to tell 
their secrets, and I Avouldn’t tell mine.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


317 


“ The difference is this, Lady Eustace ; 
that if you give false evidence upon oath, 
you commit perjury.” 

“ How was I to think of that, when I 
was so frightened and confused that I 
didn’t know where I was, of what I was 
doing? There — now I have told you 
everything.” 

“ Not quite everything. The diamonds 
were not stolen at Carlisle, but they were 
stolen afterwards. Did you tell the police 
what 3'ou had lost, or the magistrate, af- 
ter the robbery in Hertford street? ” 

“ Yes ; I did. There was some money 
tiiken, and rings, and other jewelery.” 

“ Did 3^ou tell them that the diamonds 
had been really stolen on that occasion? ” 

“ They never asked me, Mr. Camper- 
down.” 

‘•It is all as clear as a pikestaff, 
John,” said the lawyer. 

“ Quite clear, I should say,” replied 
Mr. Eustace. 

“ And I suppose 1 may go,” said Liz- 
zie, rising from her chair. 

There was no reason why she should 
not go ; and, indeed, now that the inter- 
view was over, there did not seem to be 
any reason why she should have come. 
Though they had heard so much from her 
own mouth, they knew no more than they 
had known before. The great mj'stery 
had been elucidated, and Lizzie Eustace 
had been found to be the intriguing vil- 
lain ; but it was quite clear, even to Mr. 
Camperdown, that nothing could be done 
to her. He had never really thought that 
it would be expedient that she should be 
prosecuted for perjury, and he now found 
that she must go utterly scatheless, al- 
though, bj' her obstinacy and dishonesty, 
she had inflicted so great a loss on the 
distinguished family which had taken her 
to its bosom. “ I have no reason for 
wishing to detain j'ou. Lady Eustace,” hp 
said. “If I were to talk forever, I 
should not, probably, make 3’^ou under- 
stand the extent of the injury you have 
done, or teach you to look in a proper 
light at the position in which you have 
placed yourself. When your husband 
died, good advice was given you, and given, 
I think, in a very kind way. You would 
not listen to it, and you see the result.” 

“I ain’t a bit ashamed of anything,” 
said Lizzie. 

“ I suppose not,” rejoined Mr. Camp- 
erdown. 


‘‘ Good-by, John.” And Lizzie put 
out her hand to her brother-in-law. 

“ Good-by, Lizzie.” 

“ Mr. Camperdown, I have the honor 
to wish you good-morning. ’ ’ Lizzie made 
a low courtesy to the lawyer, and was 
then attended to her carriage by the law- 
yer’s clerk. She had certainly come forth 
from the interview without fresh wounds. 

“ The barrister who will have the cross- 
examining of her at the Central Criminal 
Court,” said Mr. CamperdoAvn, as soon 
as the door was closed behind her, “ will 
have a job of work on his hands. There’s 
nothing a pretty woman can’t do when 
she’s got rid of all sense of shame.” 

“ She is a ver3’’ great woman,” said 
John Eustace, “ a .ver3" great woman ; 
and, if the sex could have its rights, 
would make an excellent law3'er.” In 
the meantime Lizzie Eustace returned 
home to Hertford street in triumph. 


CHAPTER LXXHI. 
lizzie’s last lover. 

Lizzie’s interview with the lawyer took 
place on the Wednesday afternoon, and, 
on her return to Hertford street she 
found a note from Mrs. Carbuncle. “ I 
have made arrangements for dining out 
to-day, and shall not return till after ten. 
I will do the same to-morrow, and on 
ever3’’ day till you leave town, and you 
can breakfast in v’our own room. Of 
course 3'ou will carry out your plan for 
leaving .this house on Monday. After 
what has passed, I shall prefer not to 
meet you again.— J. C.” And this was 
written by a woman who‘, but a few da3-s 
since, had borrowed £150 from her, and 
who at this moment had in her hands 
fifty pounds’ worth of silver-plate, sup- 
posed to have been given to Lucinda, and 
which clearly ought to have been re- 
turned to the donor, when Lucinda’s mar- 
riage was postponed — as the newspapers 
had said. Lucinda, at this time, had left 
the house in Hertford street, but Lizzie 
had not been informed whither she had 
been taken. She could not apply to Lu- 
cinda for restitution of the silver, which 
was, in fact, held at that moment by the 
Albemarle street hotel-keeper as part se- 
curity for his debt ; and she was quite sure 
that any application to Mrs. Carbuncle 
for either the silver or the debt would be 


9 


318 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


unavailing. But she might, perhaps, 
cause annoyance by a letter, and could, at 
any rate, return insult for insult. She 
therefore wrote to her late friend. 

“ ]\Iadam : I certainly am not desirous 
of continuing an acquaintance into which 
1 was led by false representations, and in 
the course of which I have been almost ab- 
surdly hospitable to persons altogether 
unworthy of my kindness. Yourself and 
niece, and your especial friend. Lord 
Oeorge Carruthers, and that unfortunate 
young man, your niece’s lover, were en- 
tertained at my country-house, as my 
guests, for some months. I am here, in 
my own right, by arrangement ; and, as I 
pay more than a proper share of the ex- 
pense of the establishment, I shall stay as 
long as I please, and go when I please. 

“ In the meantime, as we are about to 
part, certainly forever, I must beg you at 
once to repay me the sum of £150, which 
you have borrowed from me ; and I must 
also insist on your letting me have back 
the present of silver which was prepared 
for your niece’s marriage. That you 
should retain it as a perquisite for your- 
self cannot for a moment be thought of, 
however convenient it might be to your- 
self. “ Yours, etc., 

“ E. Eustace.” 

As far as the application for restitution 
went, or indeed in regard to the insult, she 
might as well have written to a milestone. 
Mrs. Carbuncle was much too strong, and 
had fought her battle with the world 
much too long, to regard such word-pelt- 
ing as that. She paid no attention to 
the note, and as she had come to terms 
with the agent of the house, by which she 
was to evacuate it on the following Mon- 
day, a fact which was communicated to 
Lizzie by the servant, she did not much 
regard Lizzie’s threat to remain there. 
She knew, moreover, that arrangements 
were already being made for the journey 
to Scotland. 

Lizzie had come back from the attor- 
ney’s chambers in triumph, and had 
been triumphant when she wrote her note 
to Mrs. Carbuncle ; but her elation was 
considerably repressed by a short notice 
which she read in the fashionable even- 
ing paper of the day. She always took 
the fashionable evening paper, and had 
taught herself to think that life without 


it was impossible. But on this afternoon 
she quarrelled with that fashionable even- 
ing paper forever. The popular and 
well-informed organ of intelligence in 
question informed its readers, that the 
Eustace diamonds — etc., etc. In fact, it 
told the whole story ; and then expressed 
a hope that, as the matter had from the 
commencement been one of great interest 
to the public, who had sympathized with 
Lady Eustace deeply as to the loss of her 
diamonds. Lady Eustace would be able to 
explain that part of her conduct which 
certainly, at present, was quite unintel- 
ligible. Lizzie threw the paper from her 
with indignation, asking what right 
newspaper scribblers could have to inter- 
fere with the private affairs of such per- 
sons as herself. 

But on this evening the question of her 
answer to Lord Fawn was the one which 
most interested her. Lord Fawn had 
taken long in the writing of his letter, 
and she was justified in taking what time 
she pleased in answering it ; but, for her 
own sake, it had better be answered 
quickly. She had tried her hand at two 
different replies, and did not at all doubt 
but what she would send the affirmative 
answer, if she were sure that these latter 
discoveries would not alter Lord Fawn’s 
decision. Lord Fawn had distinctly told 
her that, if she pleased, he would marry 
her. She would please ; having been 
much troubled by the circumstances of 
the past six months. But then, was it 
not almost a certainty that Lord Fawn 
would retreat from his ofi’er on learning 
the facts which were now so well-known 
as to have been related in the public pa- 
pers ? She thought that she would take 
one more night to think of it. 

Alas ; she took one night too many. 
On the next morning, while she was still 
in bed, a letter was brought to her from 
Lord Fawn, dated from his club the pre- 
ceding evening. “ Lord Fawn presents 
his compliments to Lady Eustace. Lady 
Eustace will be kind enough to under- 
stand that Lord Fawn recedes altogether 
from the proposition made by him in his 
letter to Lady Eustace dated March 28th 
last. Should Lady Eustace think proper 
to call in question the propriety of this 
decision on the part of Lord Fawn, she 
had better refer the question to some 
friend, and Lord Fawn will do the same. 
Lord Fawn thinks^t best to express his 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


319 


determination, under no circumstances, 
to communicate again personally with 
Lady Eustace on this subject, or, as far as 
he can see at present, on any other.” 

The letter was a blow to her, although 
she had felt quite certain that Lord Fawn 
would have no diflSculty in escaping from 
her hands as soon as the story of the dia- 
monds should be made public. It was a 
blow to herf although she had assured 
herself a dozen times that a marriage with 
such a one as Lord Fawn, a man who had 
not a grain of poetry in his composition, 
would make her unutterably wretched. 
What escape would her heart have had 
from itself in such a union? This ques- 
tion she had asked herself over and over 
again, and there had been no answer to 
it. But then why had she not been be- 
forehand with Lord Fawn? Why had 
she not rejected his second offer with the 
scorn which such an offer deserved ? Ah, 
there was her misfortune ; there was her 

But, with Lizzie Eustace, when she 
could not do a thing which it was .desira- 
ble that she should be known to have 
done, the next consideration was whether 
she could not so arrange as to seem to 
have done it. The arrival of Lord Fawn’s 
note just as she was about to write to him, 
was unfortunate. But she would still 
write to him, and date her letter before 
the time that his was dated. He proba- 
bly would not believe her date. She 
hardly ever expected to be really believed 
by anybody. But he would have to read 
what she wrote ; and writing on this pre- 
tence, she would avoid the necessity of 
alluding to his last letter. 

Neither of the notes which she had by 
her quite suited the occasion, so she wrote 
a third. The former letter in which she 
declined his offer was, she thought, very 
charmingly insolent, and the allusion to 
his lordship’s scullion would have been 
successful, had it been sent on the mo- 
ment, but now a graver letter was re- 
quired ; and the graver letter, the date, of 
which, it will be observed, was the day 
previous to the morning on which she had 
received Lord Fawn’s last note, was as 
follows : 

“Hertford St., Wednesday, April 3. 

“My Lord: I have taken a week to 
answer the letter which your lordship has 
done me the honor of writing to me, be- 


cause I have thought it best to have time 
for consideration in a matter of sucli im- 
portance. In this I have copied your 
lordship’s official caution 

“ I think I never read a letter so false, 
so unmanly, and so cowardly, as that which 
have found yourself capable of send- 
ing to me. 

“ You became engaged to me when, as 
I admit with shame, I did not know your 
character. You have since repudiated me 
and vilified my name, simply because, 
having found that I had enemies, and 
being afraid to face them, you wished to 
escape from your engagement. It has 
been cowardice from the beginning to the 
end. Your whole conduct to me has been 
one long, unprovoked insult, studiously 
concocted, because you have feared that 
there might possibly be some trouble for 
you to encounter. Nobody ever heard of 
anything so mean, either in novels or in 
real life. 

“And now you again offer to marry 
me — because you are again afraid. You 
think you will be thrashed, I suppose, if 
you decline to keep your engagement ; 
and feel that if you offer to go on with it, 
my friends cannot beat you. You need 
not be afraid. No earthly consideration 
would induce me to be your wife. And 
if any friend of mine should look at you 
as though he meant to punish you, you 
can show him this letter, and make him 
understand that it is I who have refused 
to be your wife, and not you who have 
refused to be my husband. 

“E. Eustace.” 

This epistle Lizzie did send, believing 
she could add nothing to its insolence, let 
her study it as she might. And she 
thought, as she read it for the fifth time, 
that it sounded as though it had been 
written before her receipt of the final note 
from himself, and that it would, therefore, 
irritate him the more. 

This was to be the last week of her 
sojourn in town, and then she was to go 
down and bury herself at Portray, with 
no other companionship than that of the 
faithful Macnulty, who had been left in 
Scotland for the last three months as 
nurse-in-chief to the little heir. She 
must go and give her evidence before the 
magistrate on Friday, as to which she 
had already received an odious slip of 
‘ paper — but Frank would accompany her. 


320 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Other misfortunes had passed oflf so light- 
ly that she hardly dreaded this. She did 
not quite understand why she was to be 
so banished, and thought much on the 
subject. She had submitted herself to 
Frank’s advice when first she had begun 
to fear that her troubles would be insu- 
perable. Her troubles were now disap- 
pearing ; and, as for Frank — what was 
Frank to her, that she should obey him’l 
Nevertheless, her trunks were being al- 
ready packed, and she knew that she 
must go. lie was to accompany her on 
her journey, and she would still have one 
more chance with him. 

As she was thinking of all this, Mr. 
Emilius, the clergyman, w'as announced. 
In her loneliness she was delighted to re- 
ceive any visitor, and she knew that Mr. 
Emilius would be at least courteous to 
her. When he had seated himself, he at 
once began to talk about the misfortune 
of the unaccomplished marriage, and in a 
very low voice hinted that from the begin- 
ning to end there had been something 
wrong. He had always fearedthat an al- 
liance based on a footing that was so 
openly “ pecuniary ” — he declared that 
the w'ord pecuniary expressed his meaning 
better than any other epithet — could not 
lead to matrimonial happiness. “We all 
know,” said he, “ that our dear friend, 
Mrs. Carbuncle, had views of her owm, 
quite distinct from her niece’s happiness. 
1 have the greatest possible respect for 
Mrs. Carbuncle, and I may say esteem ; 
but it is impossible to live long in any de- 
gree of •intimacy with Mrs. Carbuncle 
without seeing that she is — mercenary.” 

“Mercenary! indeed she is,” said 
Lizzie. 

“You have observed it? Oh, yes; it 
is so, and it casts a shadow over a charac- 
ter which otherwise has so much to 
charm.” 

“She is the most insolent and the most 
ungrateful w^oinan that I ever heard of ! ” 
exclaimed Lizzie with energy. Mr. Emil- 
ius opened his eyes, but did not contradict 
her assertion. “ As you have mentioned 
her name, Mr. Emilius, I must tell you. 
I have done everything for that woman. 
You know how I treated her down in 
Scotland.” 

“ With a splendid hospitality,” said 
Mr. Emilius. 

“ Of course she did not pay for any- 
thing there.” 


“ Oh no ! ” The idea of any one being 
called upon to pay for what one ate and 
drank at a friend’s house was peculiarly 
painful to Mr. Emilius. 

“ And I have paid for everything here. 
That is to say, we have made an arrange- 
ment, very much in her favor. And she 
has borroAved large sums of money from 
me.” ^ 

“lam not at all sarprisftd at that,” 
said Mr. Emilius. 

“ And when that poor unfortunate girl, 
her niece, was to be married to poor Sir 
Griffin Tewett, 1 gave her a whole service 
of plate.” 

“ What unparalleled generosity ! ” 

“ Would you believe she has taken the 
whole for her own base purposes? And 
then what do you think she has done? ” 

“ My dear Lady Eustace, hardly any- 
thing Avould astonish me.” 

Lizzie suddenly found a difficulty in de- 
scribing to her friend the fact that Mrs. 
Carbuncle was endeavoring to turn her 
out of the house, Avithout also alluding to 
her own troubles about the robbery. “ She 
has actually told me,” she continued, 
“ that I must leave the house without a 
day’s warning. But I believe the truth 
is, that she has run so much into debt 
that she cannot remain ! ” 

“ I know that she is very much in debt. 
Lady Eustace.” 

“ But she OAA'ed me some civility. In- 
stead of that, she has treated me with 
nothing but insolence. And Avhy, do you 
think? It is all because I A\"Ould not al- 
low her to take that poor, insane young 
Avoman to Portray Castle.” 

“ You don’t mean that she asked to go 
there?” 

“ She did, though.” 

“ I never heard such impertinence in 
my life — never,” said Mr. Emilius, again 
opening his eyes and shaking his head. 

“ She proposed that I should ask them 
both doAvn to Portray, for — for — of course 
it would have been almost forever. I 
don’t knoAV how I should have got rid of 
them. And that poor young woman is 
mad, you know — quite mad. She never 
recovered herself after that morning. Oh, 
what I have suffered about that unhappy 
marriage, and the cruel, cruel way in 
AA'hich Mrs. Carbuncle urged it on. Mr. 
Emilius, you can’t conceive the scenes 
Avhich have been acted in this house dur- 
ing the last month. It has been dreadful ! 


THE EUSTACE DIAIMONDS. 


321 


I wouldn’t go tlirough such a time again 
for anything that could be offered to me. 
It has made me so ill that 1 am obliged to 
go down to Scotland to recruit my 
health.” 

“ I heard that you were going to Scot- 
land, and I wished to have an opportunity 
of saying just a word to you in private 
before you left.” Mr. Emilius had 
thought a good deal about this interview, 
and had prepared himself for it with con- 
siderable care. He knew, with tolerable 
accuracy, the whole story of the necklace, 
having discussed it with Mrs. Carbuncle, 
who, as the reader will remember, had 
been told the tale by Lord George. He 
was aware of the engagement with Lord 
Fawn, and of the growing intimacy which 
had existed between Lord George and Liz- 
zie. He had been watchful, diligent, pa- 
tient, and had at last become hopeful. 
When he learned that his beloved was 
about to start for Scotland, he felt that it 
would be well that he should strike a 
blow before she went. As to a journey 
down to Ayrshire, that would be nothing 
to one so enamored as was Mr. Emilius ; 
and he would not scruple to show himself 
at the castle door without invitation. 
Whatever may have been his deficiencies, 
Mr. Emilius did not lack the courage 
needed to carry such an enterprise as this 
to a happy conclusion. As far as pluck 
and courage might serve a man, he was 
well served by his own gifts. He could, 
without a blush, or a quiver in his voice, 
have asked a duchess to marry him, with 
ten times Lizzie’s income. He had now 
considered deeply whether, with the view 
of prevailing, it would be better that he 
should allude to the lady’s traspasses in 
regard to the diamonds, or that he should 
pretend to be in ignorance ; and he had 
determined that ultimate success might, 
with most probability, be achieved by a 
bold declaration of the truth. “ I know 
how desperately you must be in want of 
some one to help you through your troub- 
les, and I know also that your grand 
lovers will avoid you because of what you 
have done, and therefore you had better 
take me at once. Take me, and I’ll bring 
you through everything. Refuse me, and 
I’ll crush you.” Such were the argu- 
ments which Mr. Emilius had determined 
to use, and such the language — of course 
with some modifications. He was now 
commencing liis work, and was quite re- 
21 


solved to leave no stone unturned in car- 
rying it to a successful issue. lie drew 
his chair nearer to Lizzie as he announced 
his desire for a private interview, and 
leaned over toward her with his two 
hands closed together between his knees. 
He w'as a dark, hookey-nosed, well-made 
man, with an exuberance of greasy hair, 
who would have been considered hand- 
some by many women had there not been 
something, almost amounting to a squint, 
amiss with one of his eyes. When he 
was preaching it could hardly be seen, but 
in the closeness of private conversation it 
was disagreeable. 

“ Oh, indeed;” said Lizzie, with a look 
of astonishment, perfectly well-assumed. 
She had already begun to consider wheth- 
er, after all, Mr. Emilius — would do. 

“Yes; Lady Eustace; it is so. You 
and I have known each other now for 
many months, and 1 have received the 
most unaffected pleasure from the ac- 
quaintance, may I not say from the inti- 
macy, which has sprung up between us? ” 
Lizzie did not forbid the use of the pleas- 
ant word, but merely bowed. “ I think 
that as a devoted friend and a clergyman , 
I shall not be thought to be intruding on 
private ground in saying that circumstan- 
ces have made me aware of the details of 
the robberies by which you have been so 
cruelly persecuted.” So the man had 
come about the diamonds and not to make 
an offer ! Lizzie raised her eyebrows, and 
bowed her head with the slightest'possi- 
ble motion. “I do not know how far 
your friends or the public may condemn 
you, but .” 

“ My friends don't condemn me at all, 
sir.” 

“ I am so glad to hear it ! ” 

“ Nobody has dared to condemn me ex- 
cept this impudent woman here, who 
wants an excuse for not paying me what 
she owes me.” 

“I am delighted. I was going to ex- 
plain that although 1 am aware you have 
infringed the letter of the law, and made 
yourself liable to proceedings Avhich may, 
perhaps, be unpleasant ” 

“ I ain’t liable to anything unpleasant 
at all, Mr. Emilius.” 

“ Then my mind is greatly relieved. I 
was about to remark, having heard in the 
outer world that there were those who 
ventured to accuse you of— of perju- 
ry ” 


322 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“Nobody has dared to accuse me of 
anything. What makes you come here 
and say such things? ” 

“ Ah, Lady Eustace. It is because 
these calumnies are spoken so openly be- 
hind j'^our back.” 

“ Who speaks them? Mrs. Carbuncle 
and Lord George Carruthers, my ene- 
mies.” 

Mr. Emilius was beginning to feel that 
he was not making progress. “ I was on 
the point of observing to you that, accord- 
ing to the view of the matter which I as a 
clergyman have taken, you were altogeth- 
er justified in the steps which you took for 
the protection of property which was your 
own, but which had been attacked by de- 
signing persons.” 

“ Of course I was justified,” said Liz- 
zie. 

“ You know best, Lady Eustace, wheth- 
er any assistance I can offer will avail you 
anything.” 

“ I don’t want any assistance, Mr. Emi- 
lius, thank you.” 

“I certainly have been given to under- 
stand that they who ought to stand by you 
with the closest devotion have, in this pe- 
riod of what I may, perhaps, call — tribula- 
tion, deserted your side with cold selfish- 
ness.” 

“But there isn’t any tribulation, and 
nobody has deserted my side.” 

“ I was told that Lord Fawn ” 

“ Lord Fawn is an idiot.” 

“ Quite so ; no doubt.” 

“ And I have deserted him. I wrote to 
him this very morning in answer to a 
pressing letter from him to renew our en- 
gagement, to tell him that that was out 
of the question. I despise Lord Fawn, 
and my heart never can be given where 
my respect does not accompany *it.” 

“ A noble sentiment. Lady Eustace, 
which I reciprocate completely. And 
now, to come to what I may call the inner 
purport of my visit to you this morning — 
the sweet cause of my attendance on you , 
let me assure you that I should not now 
offer you my heart unless with my heart 
went the most perfect respect and esteem 
which any man ever felt for a woman.” 
Mr. Emilius had found the necessity of 
coming to the point by some direct road, 
as the lady had refused to allow him to 
lead up to it in the manner he had pro- 
posed to himself. He still thought that 
what he had said might be eflScacious, as 


he did not for a moment believe her asser- 
tions as to her own friends and the non- 
existence of any trouble as to the oaths 
which she had falsely sworn; but she 
carried the matter with a better courage 
than he had expected to find, and drove 
him out of his intended line of approach. 
He had, however, seized his opportunity 
without losing much time. 

“ What on earth do you mean, Mr. 
Emilius?” 

“ I mean to lay my heart, my hand, my 
fortunes, my profession, my career at your 
feet, . I make bold to say of myself that I 
have by my own unaided eloquence and 
intelligence, won for myself a great posi- 
tion in this swarming metropolis. Lady 
Eustace, I know your great rank. I feel, 
your transcendent beauty, ah, too acute- 
ly. I have been told that you are rich ; 
but I, myself, who venture to approach 
you as a suitor for your hand, am also 
somebody in the world. The blood that 
runs in my veins is as illustrious as your 
own, having descended to me from the 
great and ancient nobles of my native 
country. The profession which I have 
adopted is the grandest which ever filled 
the heart of man with aspirations. 1 
have barely turned my thirty-second year, 
and I am known as the greatest preacher 
of my day, though I preach in a language 
which is not my own. Your House of 
Lords would be open to me as a spiritual 
peer would I condescend to come to terms 
with those who crave the assistance which 
I could give them. I can move the masses. 
I can touch the hearts of men. And in 
this great assemblage of mankind which 
you call London, I can choose my own so- 
ciety, among the highest of the land. 
Lady Eustace, will you share with me my 
career and my fortunes? I ask you be- 
cause you are the only woman whom my 
heart has stooped to love.” 

The man was a nasty, greasy, lying, 
squinting Jew preacher; an impostor, 
over forty years of age, whose greatest so- 
cial success had been achieved when, 
through the agency of Mrs. Carbuncle, he 
made his way into Portray Castle. He 
was about as near an English mitre as had 
been that great man of a past generation, 
the Deputy Shepherd. He was a creature 
to loathe, because he was greasy and a 
liar and an impostor. But there was a 
certain manliness in him. He was not 
afraid of the woman ; and in pleading his 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


32 ;- 


cause with her he could stand up for him- 
self courageously. He had studied his 
speech, and having studied it he knew 
how to utter the words. He did not 
blush nor stammer nor cringe. Of grand- 
father or grandmother belonging to him- 
self he had probably never heard, but 
he could so speak of his noble ancestors 
as to produce belief in Lizzie’s mind ; 
and almost succeeded in convincing her 
that he was, by the consent of mankind, 
the greatest preacher of the day. While 
he was making his speech she almost 
liked his squint. She certainly liked the 
grease and nastiness. Presuming, as she 
naturally did, that something of what he 
said was false, she liked the lies. There 
was a dash of poetry about him ; and po- 
etry, as she thought, was not compatible 
with humdrum truth. A man, to be a 
man in her eyes, should be able to swear 
that all his geese are swans ; should be 
able to reckon his swans by the dozen, 
though he have not a feather belonging to 
him, even from a goose’s wing. She liked 
his audacity ; and then when he was mak- 
ing love he was not afraid of talking out 
boldly about his heart. Nevertheless he 
was only Mr. Emilius the clergj^man ; and 
she had means of knowing that his income 
was not generous. Though she admired 
his manner and his language, she was 
quite aware that he was in pursuit of her 
money ; and, from the moment in which 
she first understood his object, she was re- 
solved that she would never become the 
wife of Mr. Emilius as long as there was 
a hope as to Frank Greystock. 

“ I was told, Mr. Emilius,” she said, 
“ that you, some time since, had a wife.” 

“ It was a falsehood. Lady Eustace. 
From motives of pure charity I gave a 
home to a distant cousin. I was then in 
a land of strangers, and my life was mis- 
interpreted. I made no complaint, but 
sent the lady back to her native country. 
My compassion could supply her wants 
there as well as here.” 

“ Then you still support her? ” 

Mr. Emilius, thinking there might be 
danger in asserting that he was subject 
to such an encumbrance, replied, “I did 
do so, till she found a congenial home as 
the wife of an honest man.” 

“Oh, indeed. I’m quite glad to hear 
that.” 

“ And now. Lady Eustace, may I ven- 
ture to hope for a favorable answer ? ” 


Upon this, Lizzie made him a speech a.s 
long, and almost as well-turned as his own . 
Her heart had of latO been subject to 
many vicissitudes. She had lost the 
dearest husband that a woman had ever 
worshipped. She had ventured, for pur- 
poses with reference to her child, whicli 
she could not now explain, to think once 
again of matrimony with a person of high 
rank, who had turned out to be un- 
worthy of her. She had receded (Lizzie, 
as she said this, acted the part of reced- 
ing, with a fine expression of scornful face) 
and after that she was unwilling to enter- 
tain any further idea of marriage. Upon 
hearing this, Mr. Emilius bowed low, and 
before the street door was closed against 
him had begun to calculate how much a 
journey to Scotland would cost him. 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 

LIZZIE AT THE POLICE-COURT. 

On the Wednesday and Thursday Liz- 
zie had been triumphant ; for she had 
certainly come out unscathed from Mr. 
Camperdown’s chambers, and a lady may 
surely be said to triumph when a gentleman 
lays his hand, his heart, his fortunes, and 
all that he lias got, at her feet ; but 
when the Friday came, though she was 
determined to be brave, her heart did 
sink within her bosom. She understood 
well that she would be called upon to ad- 
mit in public the falseness of the oaths 
she had sworn upon two occasions ; and 
that, though she would not be made amen- 
able to any absolute punishment for her 
perjury, she would be subject to very 
damaging remarks from the magistrate, 
and, probably, also from some lawyers em- 
ployed to defend the prisoners. She went 
to bed in fairly good spirits, but in the 
morning she was cowed and unhappy. 
She dressed herself from head to foot in 
black, and prepared for herself a heavy, 
black veil. She had ordered from the 
livery-stable a brougham for the occasion, 
thinking it wise to avoid the display of 
her own carriage. She breakfasted early, 
and then took a large glass of wine to 
support her. When Frank called for her, 
at a quarter to ten, she was quite ready, 
and grasped his hand almost without a 
word. But she looked into his face with 
her eyes filled with tears. “ It will soon 
be over,” he said. She pressed his hand. 


324 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


and made him a sign, to show that she was 
ready to follow him to the door. “ The 
case will come on at once,” he said, “ so 
that you will not be kept waiting.” 

“ Oh, you are so good ; so good to me.” 
She pressed his arm, and did not speak 
again till they reached the police-court. 

There was a great crowd about the of- 
fice, w^hich was in a little by-street, and 
so circumstanced that Lizzie’s brougham 
could hardly make its way up to the door. 
But way was at once made for her w'hen 
Frank handed her out of it, and the police- 
men about the place were as courteous to 
her as though she had been the Lord 
Chancellor's wife. ' Evil-doing wdll be 
.spoken .of wdth bated breath and soft 
w'ords even by policemen, w’hen the evil- 
doer comes in a carriage and with a 
title. Lizzie was led at once into a pri- 
vate room, and told that she would be 
kept there only a very few minutes. 
Frank made his w^ay into the court and 
found that two magistrates had just seated 
themselves' on the bench. One w’ould 
have sufficed for the occasion ; but this was 
a case of great interest, and even police- 
magistrates are human in their interests. 
(Jreystock wasallow^edto get round to the 
bench and whisper a word or two to the 
gentleman wdiowas to preside. The mag- 
istrate nodded his head, and the case 
began. 

The unfortunate !Mr. Benjamin had 
been sent back in durance vile from Vien- 
na, and was present in the court.. With 
him, as joint malefactor, stood Mr. Smiler, 
the great housebreaker, a huge, ugly, res- 
olute-looking scoundrel, possessed of enor- 
mous strength, who was very intimately 
knowm to the police, wdth w'hom he had 
had various dealings since he had been 
turned out upon the town to earn his 
bread some fifteen years before. Indeed, 
long before that he had known the police 
— as far as his memory went back he had 
always known them. But the sportive 
industry of his boyish years was not now 
counted up against him. In the last fif- 
teen years his biography had been written 
with all the accuracy due to the achieve- 
ments of a great man ; and during those 
hundred and eighty months he had .spent 
over one hundred in prison, and had been 
convicted twenty-three times. He was 
now growing old, as a thief, and it was 
thought by his friends that he would be 
settled for life in some quiet retreat. Mr. 


Benjamin was a very respectable-looking 
man of about fifty, with slightly grizzled 
hair, ^Yith excellent black clothes, and 
showing, by a suriirised air, his aston- 
ishment at finding himself in such a posi- 
tion. He spoke constantly, both to his at- 
torney and to the barrister who was to 
show cause whj' he should not be com- 
mitted, and throughout the whole morn- 
ing was very bu.sy. Smiler, who was 
quite at home, and who understood his 
position, never said a word to any one. 
He stood, perfectly straight, looking at 
the magistrate, and never for a moment 
leaning on the rail before him during the 
four hours that the case consumed. Once, 
when his friend, Billy Cann, was brought 
into court to give evidence against him, 
dressed up to the eyes, serene and sleek, as 
when we saw him once before at the 
“ Rising Sun,” in Meek street, Smiler 
turned a glance upon him which, to the 
eyes of all present, contained a threat of 
most bloody revenge. But Billy knew the 
advantages of his situation, and nodded at 
his old comrade, and smiled. His old 
comrade was very much stronger than he, 
and possessed of many natural advan- 
tages; but, perhaps, upon the whole, his 
old comrade had been the less intelligent 
thief of the two. It was thus that the 
by-standers read the meaning of Billy’s 
smile. 

The case was opened very shortly and 
very clearly by the gentleman who was 
emplo3^ed for the prosecution. It would 
all, he said, have laid in a nut-shell, had 
it not been complicated by a previous rob- 
bery at Carlisle. Were it necessary, he 
said, there would be no difficulty in con- 
victing the prisoners for that offence also, 
but it had been thought advisable to con- 
fine the prosecution to the act of burglary 
committed in Hertford street. He stated 
the facts of what had happened at Car- 
lisle, merely for explanation, but would 
state nothing that could not be proven. 
Then he told all that the reader knows 
about the iron box. But the diamonds 
were not then in the box ; and he told that 
story also, treating Lizzie with great ten- 
derness as he did so. Lizzie, all this 
time, was sitting behind her veil in the pri- 
vate room, and did not hear a word of what 
was going on. Then he came to the rob- 
ber^’ in Hertford street. He would prove 
by Lady Eustace that the diamonds w^ere 
left by her in a locked desk, were so de- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


326 


posited, thougli all her friends believed 
them to have been taken at Carlisle ; and 
he Avould, moreover, prove by accom- 
plices that they were stolen by two men, 
the younger prisoner at the bar being one 
of them, and the witness who would be 
adduced, the other ; that they were given 
up by these men to the elder prisoner, 
and that a certain sum had been paid by 
him for the execution of the two rob- 
beries. There was much more of it ; but 
to the reader, who knows all, it would be 
but a thrice-told tale. He then said that 
he first proposed to take the evidence of 
Lady Eustace, the lady who had been in 
possession of the diamonds when they 
were stolen. Then Frank Greystock left 
the court, and returned with poor Lizzie 
on his arm. 

She was handed to a chair, and, after 
she was sworn, was told that she might 
sit down ; but she was requested to re- 
move her veil, which she had replaced as 
soon as she had kissed the book. The 
first question asked her was very easy. 
Did she remember the night at Carlisle ? 
Would she tell the history of what oc- 
curred on that night ? When the box was 
stolen, were the diamonds in it? No; 
she had taken the diamonds out for se- 
curity, and had kept them under her pil- 
low. Then came a bitter moment, in 
which she had to confess her perjury be- 
fore the Carlisle bench; but even that 
seemed to pass off smoothly. The magis- 
trate asked one severe question. “ Do 
you mean to say, Lady Eustace, that you 
gave false evidence on that occasion, 
knowing it to be false?” “I was in 
such a state, sir, from fear, that I did not 
know what I was saying,” exclaimed Liz- 
zie, bursting into tears, and stretching 
fbrth toward the bench her two clasped 
hands with the air of a suppliant. From 
that moment the magistrate was alto- 
gether on her side, and so were the pub- 
lic. Poor, ignorant, ill-used young crea- 
ture ; and then so lovely ! That was the 
general feeling. But she had not as yet 
come beneath the harrow of that learned 
gentleman on the other side, whose best 
talents were due to Mr. Benjamin. Then 
she told all she knew about the other rob- 
bery. She certainly had not said, when 
examined on that occasion, that the dia- 
monds had then been taken. She had 
omitted to name the diamonds in her 
catalogue of the things stolen ; but she 


was sure that she had never said that they 
were not then taken. She had said noth- 
ing about the diamonds, knowing them 
to be her own, and preferring to lose 
them, to the trouble of again referring to 
the night at Carlisle. Such was her evi- 
dence for the prosecution, and then she 
was turned over to the very learned and 
very acute gentleman whom Mr. Benja- 
min had hired tor his defence, or rather, 
to show cause why he should not be sent 
for trial. 

It must be owned that poor Lizzie did 
receive from his hands some of that pun- 
ishment which she certainly deserved. 
This acute and learned gentleman seemed 
to possess for the occassion the blandest 
and most dulcet voice that ever was be- 
stowed upon an English barrister. He 
addressed Lady Eustace with the softest 
words, as though he hardly dai^d to speak 
to a woman so eminent for wealth, rank, 
and beauty ; but nevertheless he asked 
her some very disagreeable questions. 
“ Was he to understand that she went of 
her own will before the bench of magis- 
trates at Carlisle, with the view of ena- 
bling the police to capture certain persons 
for stealing certain jewels, while she knew 
that the jewels were actually in her own 
possession? ” Lizzie, confounded by the 
softness of his voice as joined to the harsh- 
ness of the question, could hardly under- 
stand him, and he repeated it thrice, be- 
coming every time more and more mellif- 
luous, “ Yes,” said Lizzie at last. 
“Yes?” he asked. “ Yes,” said Lizzie. 
“ Your ladyship did send the Cumberland 
police after men for stealing jewels which 
were in your ladyship’s own hands when 
3’^ou swore the information?” “Yes,” 
said Lizzie. “ And your lad3"ship knew 
that the information was untrue?” 
“Yes,” said Lizzie. “And the police 
were pursuing the men for many weeks ?” 
“ Yes,” said Lizzie. “ On your informa- 
tion ? ” “ Yes,” said Lizzie, through her 
tears. “ And your ladyship knew, all the 
time, that the poor men were altogether 
innocent of taking the jewels? ” “ But 
they took the box,” said Lizzie, through 
her tears. “Yes,” said the acute and 
learned gentleman, “ somebody took your 
ladyship’s iron box out of the room, and 
you swore that the diamonds had been 
taken. Was it not the fact that legal 
proceedings were being taken against you 
for the recovery of the diamonds by per- 


i 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


32G 

pons who claimed the property?” “ Yes,” 
said Lizzie. “ And these persons with- 
drew their proceedings as soon as they 
heard that the diamonds had been stolen? ” 

Soft as he was in his manner, he nearly 
reduced Lizzie Eustace to fainting. It 
seemed to her that the questions would 
never end. It was in vain that the mag- 
istrate pointed out to the learned gentle- 
man that Lady Eustace had confessed her 
own false swearing, both at Carlisle and 
in London, a dozen times, for he continued 
his questions over and over again, harp- 
ing chiefly on the afiair at Carlisle, and 
saying very little as to the second robbery 
in Hertford street. His idea was to make 
it appear that Lizzie had arranged the 
robbery with the view of defrauding Mr. 
Camperdown, and that Lord George Car- 
ruthers was her accomplice. He even 
asked her, g,lmost in a whisper, and with 
the sweetest smile, whether she was not 
engaged to marry Lord George. When 
Lizzie denied this, he still suggested that 
some such alliance might be in contem- 
plation. Upon this, Frank Greystock 
called upon the magistrate to defend Lady 
Eustace from such unnecessary vulgarity, 
and there was a scene in the court. Lizzie 
did not like the scene, but it helped to pro- 
tect her from the contemplation of the pub- 
lic, who, of course, were much gratified by 
high words between two barristers. 

Lady Eustace was forced to remain in 
the private room during the examination 
of Patience Crabstick and Mr. Cann, and 
so did not hear it. Patience was a most 
obdurate and difficult witness — extremely 
averse to say evil of herself, and on that 
account unworthy of the good things 
which she had received. But Billy Cann 
was charming — graceful, communicative, 
and absolutely accurate. There was no 
shaking him. The learned and acute 
gentleman who tried to tear him in pieces 
could do nothing with him. He was ask- 
ed whether he had not been a professional 
thief for ten years. ‘ ‘ Ten or twelve,” said 
he. Did he expect that any juryman 
would believe him on his oath? “Not 
unless I am fully corroborated.” “ Can 
you look that man in the face — that man 
who is at any rate so much honester than 
yourself?” asked the learned gentleman 
with pathos. Billy said that he thought 
he could, and the way in which he smiled 
upon Smiler caused a roar through the 
whole court. 


The two men were, as a matter of course, 
committed for trial at the Central Crimi- 
nal Court, and Lizzie Eustace was bound 
by certain penalties to come forward when 
called upon, and give her evidence again. 

“lam glad that it is over,” said Frank, 
as he left her at Mrs. Carbuncle’s hall 
door. 

“ Oh Frank, dearest Frank, where 
should I be if it were not for you? ” 


CHAPTER LXXV. 

LORD GEORGE GIVES HIS REASONS. 

Lady Eustace did not leave the house 
during the Saturday and Sunday, and en- 
gaged herself exclusively with preparing 
for her journey. She had no further in- 
terview with Mrs. Carbuncle, but there 
were messages between them, and even 
notes were written. They resulted in 
nothing. Lizzie was desirous of getting 
back the spoons and forks, and, if possi- 
ble, some of her money. The spoons and 
forks were out of Mrs. Carbuncle's power 
— in Albemarle street — and the money had, 
of course, been spent. Lizzie might have 
saved herself the trouble, had it not been 
that it was a pleasure to her to insult her 
late friend, even though, in doing so, new 
insults were heaped upon her own head. 
As for the trumpery spoons, they — so said 
Mrs. Carbuncle — were the property of Miss 
Roanoke, having been made over to her, 
unconditionally, long before the wedding, 
as a part of a separate 'pecuniary transac- 
tion. Mrs. Carbuncle had no power of 
disposing of Miss Roanoke’s property. 
As to the money which Lady Eustace 
claimed, Mrs. Carbuncle asserted that, 
when the final accounts should be made 
up between them, it would be found that 
there was a considerable balance due to 
ISIrs. Carbuncle ; but even were there 
anything due to Lady Eustace, Mrs. Car- 
buncle would decline to pay it, as she was 
informed that all moneys possessed by 
Lady Eustace were now confiscated to the 
Crown by reasons of the PERJURIES — 
the word was doubly scored in Mrs. Car- 
buncle’s note — which Lady Eustace had 
committed. This, of course, was unpleas- 
ant ; but Mrs. Carbuncle did not have 
the honors of the battle all to herself. 
Lizzie also said some unpleasant things 
which, perhaps, were the more unpleasant 
because they were true. Mrs. Carbuncle 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


327 


had come pretty nearly to the end of her 
career, whereas Lizzie’s income, in spite 
of her perjuries, was comparatively un 
touched. The undoubted mistress of Por- 
tray Castle, and mother of the Sir Florian 
Eustace of the day, could still despise 
and look down upon Mrs. Carbuncle, al- 
though she were known to have told fibs 
about the family diamonds. 

Lord George always came to Hertford 
street on a Sunday, and Lady Eustace left 
word for him, with the servant, that she 
would be glad to see him before her jour- 
ney into Scotland. “ Goes to-morrow, 
does she?” said Lord George to the ser- 
vant. “Well, I’ll see her.” And he 
was shown up to her room before he went 
to l\Irs. Carbuncle. 

Lizzie, in sending for him, had some 
half-formed idea of a romantic farewell. 
The man, she thought, had behaved very 
badly to her ; had accepted very much 
from her hands, and had refused to give 
her anything in return ; had become the 
first repository of her great secret, and 
had placed no mutual confidence in her. 
He had been harsh to her, and unjust ; 
and then, too, he had declined to be in 
love with her ! She was full of spite 
against Lord George, and would have 
been glad to injure him ; but, nevertheless, 
there would be some excitement in a fare- 
well, in which some mock afiection might 
be displayed — and she would have an op- 
portunity of abusing Mrs. Carbuncle. 

“ So you are off to-morrow ? ” said Lord 
George, taking his place on the rug before 
her fire, and looking down at her with 
his head a little on one side. Lizzie’s 
anger against the man chiefly arose from 
a feeling that he treated her with all a 
Corsair’s freedom without any of a Cor- 
sair’s tenderness. She could have for- 
given the want of deferential manner, 
had there been any devotion — ^but Lord 
George was both impudent and indif- 
ferent. 

“Yes,” she said. “Thank goodness, 
I shall get out of this frightful place to- 
morrow, and soon have once more a roof 
of my own over my head. What an ex- 
perience I have had since I have been 
here ! ” 

“We have all had an experience,” said 
Lord George, still looking at her with 
that half-comic turn of his face — almost 
as though he were investigating some 
curious animal of which so remarkable a 


specimen had never before come under 
his notice. 

“ No woman ever intended to show a 
more disinterested friendship than I have , 
done ; and what has been my return ? ’ ’ 

“ You mean to me — disinterested friend- 
ship to me?” And Lord George tapped 
his breast lightly with his fingers. His 
head was still a little on one side, and 
there was still the smile upon his face. 

“ I was alluding particularly to Mrs. 
Carbuncle.” 

“Lady Eustace, I cannot take charge 
of !Mrs. Carbuncle's friendships. I have 
enough to do to look after my own. If 
you have any complaint to make agaiilst 
me, I will at least listen to it.” 

“ God knows I do not want to make 
complaints,” said Lizzie, covering her 
face with her hands. 

“ They don’t do much good — do they? 
It’s better to take people as you find ’em, 
and then make the best of ’em. They’re 
a queer lot ; ain’t they — the sort of peo- 
ple one meets about in the world ? ” 

“ I don’t know what you mean by that. 
Lord George.” 

“Just what you were saying when you 
talked of your experiences. These expe- 
riences do surprise one. I have knocked 
about the world a great deal, and would 
have almost said that nothing would sur- 
prise me. You are no more than a child 
to me, but you have surprised me.” 

“ I hope I have not injured you. Lord 
George.” 

“ Do you remember how you rode to 
hounds the day your cousin took that 
other man’s horse? That surprised me.” 

“Oh, Lord George, that was the hap- 
piest day of my life. How little happi- 
ness there is for people ! ” 

“ And when Tewett got that girl to 
say she’d marry him, the coolness with 
which you bore all the abomination of it 
in your house — for people who were noth- 
ing to you ; that surprised me ! ” 

“ I meant to be so kind to you all.” 

“ And when I found that you always 
travelled with ten thousand pounds’ worth 
of diamonds in a box, that surprised me 
very much. I thought that you were a 
very dangerous companion.” 

“ Pray don’t talk about the horrid 
necklace.” 

“ Then came the robbery, and you 
seemed to lose your diamonds without be- 
ing at all unhappy about them Of course, 


328 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


we understand that now.” On hearing 
this, Lizzie smiled, but, did not say a 
word. “ Then I perceived that I — I was 
supposed to be the thief. You — you your- 
self couldn’t have suspected me of taking 
the diamonds, because — because you’d 
got them, you know, all safe in your 
pocket. But jmu might as well own the 
truth now. - Didn’t you think that it was 
I who stole the box ? ” 

“ I wish it had been you,” said Lizzie 
laughing. 

“ All that surprised me. The police 
were watching me every day as a cat 
watches a mouse, and thought that they 
surely had got the thief when they found 
that I had dealings with Benjamin. Well, 
you — you were laughing at me in your 
sleeve all the time.” 

“Not laughing, Lord George.” 

“ Yes you were. You had got the ker- 
nel yourself, and thought that I had taken 
all the trouble to crack the nut and had 
found myself with nothing but the shell. 
Then, when you found you couldn’t eat the 
kernel, that j’ou couldn’t get rid of the 
swag "without assistance, you came to me 
to help you. I began to think then that 
you were too many for all of us. By 
Jove, I did ! Then I heard of the second 
robbery, and, of course, I thought you 
had managed that too.” 

“ Oh no,” said Lizzie. 

“Unfortunately you didn’t; but 1 
thought you did. And you thought that 
I had done it ! Mr. Benjamin was too 
clever for us both, and now he is going to 
have penal servitude for the rest of his 
life. I wonder who will be the better of 
it all. Who’ll have the diamonds at 
last? ” 

“ I do not in the least care. I hate the 
diamonds. Of course I would not give 
them up, because they were my own.” 

“ The end seems to be that you have 
lost your property, and sworn ever so 
many false oaths, and have brought all 
your friends into trouble, and have got 
nothing by it. What was the good of 
being so clever? ” 

“You need not come here to tease me. 
Lord George.” 

“ I came here because jmu sent for me. 
There’s my poor friend, Mrs. Carbuncle, 
declares that all her credit is destroyed, 
and her niece unable to marry, and her 
house taken away from her — all because 
of her connection with you.” 


“ Mrs . Carbuncle is — is — is — . Oh, 
Lord George, don’t jmu know what .she 
is? ” 

“ I know that Mrs. Carbuncle is in a very 
bad way, and that that girl has gone crazy, 
and that poor Griff has taken himself off to 
Japan, and that 1 am so knocked about 
that I don’t know where to go ; and some- 
how it .seems all to have come from your 
little manoeuvres. You see we have all 
of us been made remarkable ; haven’t 
we ? ” 

“ You are alwaj’s remarkable, Lord 
George.” 

“ And it is all your doing. To be sure 
you have lost your diamonds for your 
pains. I wouldn’t mind it .so much if any- 
body were the better for it. I shouldn’t 
have begrudged even Benjamin the pull, 
if he’d got it.” 

lie stood there, still looking doAvn upon 
her, speaking with a sarcastic submissive 
tone, and, as she felt, intending to be se- 
vere to her. Though she believed that 
she hated him, she would have liked to 
get up some show of an affectionate fare- 
well ; some scene, in which there might 
have been tears, and tenderness, and po- 
etry, and perhaps a parting caress ; but 
with his jeering words and sneering face, 
he was as hard as a rock. lie was now 
silent, but still looking down upon her as 
he stood motionless on the rug, so that 
she was compelled to speak again. “ I 
sent for you. Lord George, because [ did 
not like the idea of parting with you for- 
ever, without one word of adieu.” 

“ You are going to tear yourself away, 
are you? ” 

“lam going to Portray on Monday.” 

“And never coming back any more? 
You ’ll be up here before the season is over, 
with fifty more wonderful schemes in your 
little head. So Lord Fawn is done with, 
is he?” 

“ I have told Lord Fawn that nothing 
shall induce me ever to see him again.” 

“ And cousin Frank?” 

“ My cousin attends me down to Scot- 
land.” 

“ Oh — h. That makes it altogether 
another thing. He attends you down to 
Scotland, does he? Does Mr. Emilius go 
too? ” 

“ I believe you are trying to insult me, 
sir.” 

“ You can’t expect but what a man 
should be a little jealous, when he has 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


329 


been so completely cut out himself. There 
was a time, you know, when even cousin 
Frank wasn’t a better fellow than myself.” 

“ Much you thought about it, Lord 
George.” 

“ Well — I did. I thought about it a 
good deal, my lady. And 1 liked the idea 
of it very much.” Lizzie pricked up her 
cars. In spite of all his harshness, could 
it be that he should be the Corsair still ? 
“ 1 am a rambling, uneasy, ill-to-do sort of 
man, but still I thought about it.. You are 
pretty, you know — uncommonly pretty.” 

“ Don’t, Lord George.” 

“ And I’ll acknowledge that the income 
goes for much. I suppose that’s real at 
any rate ? ” 

“ Well — 1 hope so. Of course it’s real. 
And so is the prettiness. Lord George — if 
there is any.” 

“ I never doubted that. Lady Eustace. 
But when it came to my thinking that you 
had stolen the diamonds, and you thinking 

that I had stolen the box ! I’m not a 

man to stand on trifles, but, by George ! it 
wouldn’t do then.” 


“ Who wanted it to do?” said Lizzie. 
“ Go away. You are very unkind to me. 
I hope I may never see you again. I be- 
lieve you care more for that odious vulgar 
woman down stairs than you do for any- 
body else in the world.” 

“ Ah dear ! I have known her for many 
years, Lizzie, and that both covers and 
discovers many faults. One learns to 
know how bad one’s old friends are, but 
then one forgives them, because they are 
old friends.” 

“You can’t forgive me — because I’m 
bad, and only a new friend.” 

“ Yes, I will. I forgive you all, and 
hope you may do well yet. If I may give 
you one bit of advice at parting, it is to 
caution you against being clever when 
there is nothing to get by it.” 

“ I ain’t clever at all,” said Lizzie, be- 
ginning to whimper. 

“ Good-by, my dear.” 

“ Good-by,” said Lizzie. He took her 
hand in one of his ; patted her on the head 
with the other, as though she had been a 
child, and then left her 


CHAPTER LXXVI. 

LIZZIE RETURNS TO SCOTLAND. 

F rank GREYSTOCK, the writer 
fears, will not have recommended 
himself to those readers of this tale who 
think the part of lover to the heroine should 
be always filled by a young man with he- 
roic attributes. And yet the young member 
for Bobsborough was by no means deficient 
in fine qualities, and perhaps was quite 
as capable of heroism as the majority of 
barristers and members of Parliament 
among whom he consorted, and who were 
to him the world. A man born to great 
wealth may, without injury to himself or 
his friends, do pretty nearly what he likes 
in regard to marriage, always presuming 
that the wife he selects be of his own 
rank. lie need not marry for money, nor 
need he abstain from marriage because he 
can’t support a wife without money. 
And the very poor man, who has no pre- 
tension to rank or standing, other than 
that which honesty may give him, can do 
the same. His wife’s fortune will consist 
in the labor of her hands, and in her abil- 
ity to assist him in his home. But be- 
tween these there is a middle class of men, 
who, by reason of their education, are pe- 
culiarly susceptible to the charms of wom- 
anhood, but who literally cannot marry 
for love, because their earnings will do no 
more than support themselves. As to this 
special young man, it must be confessed 
that his earnings should have done much 
more than that ; but not the less did he 
find himself in a position in which mar- 
riage with a penniless girl seemed to 
threaten him and her with ruin. All his 
friends told Frank Greystock that he 
would be ruined were he to marry Lucy 
Morris ; and his friends were people sup- 
posed to be very good and wise. The dean, 
and the dean’s wife, his father and moth- 
er, were very clear that it would be so. 
Old Lady Linlithgow had spoken of such 
a marriage as quite out of the question. 
The Bishop of Bobsborough, when it was 
mentioned in his hearing, had declared 
that such a marriage would be a thousand 


pities. And even dear old Lady Fawn, 
though she wished it for Lucy’s sake, had 
many times prophesied that such a thing 
was quite impossible. When the rumor 
of the marriage reached Lady Glencora, 
Lady Glencora told her friend, Madame 
Max Goesler, that that young man was 
going to blow his brains out. To her 
thinking the two actions were equivalent. 
It is only when we read of such men that 
we feel that truth to his sweetheart is the 
first duty of man. I am afraid that it is 
not the advice which we give to our sons. 

But it was the advice which Frank 
Grej^stock had most persistently given to 
himself since he had first known Lucy 
Morris. Doubtless he had vacillated, but 
on the balance of his convictions as to his 
own future conduct he had been much no- 
bler than his friends. He had never hesi- 
tated for a moment as to the value of Lucy 
Morris. She was not beautiful. She had 
no wonderful gifts of nature. There was 
nothing of a goddess about her. She w’as 
absolutely penniless. She had never been 
what the world calls well-dressed. And 
yet she^ had been everything to him. 
There had grown up a sympathy between 
them quite as strong on his part as on 
hers, and he had acknowledged it to him- 
self. He had never doubted his own love, 
and when he had been most near to con- 
vincing himself that in his peculiar posi- 
tion he ought to marry his rich cousin be- 
cause of her wealth, then, at those mo- 
ments, he had most strongly felt that to 
have Lucy IMorris close to him was the 
greatest charm in existence. Hitherto his 
cousin’s money, joined to flatteries and 
caresses — which if a young man can resist 
he is almost more than a young man — had 
tempted him ; but he had combated the 
temptation. On one memorable evening 
his love for Lucy had tempted him. Tc 
that temptation he had yielded, -and the 
letter by which he became engaged to her 
had been written. He had never meant to 
evade it ; had always told himself that it 
should not be evaded ; but gradually days 
had been added to da5"s, and months to 
months, and he had allowed her to Ian- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


331 


guish without seeing him, and almost 
without hearing from him. 

She too had heard from all sides that 
she was deserted by him, and she had 
written to him to give him back his troth ; 
but she had not sent her letters. She did 
not doubt that the thing was over — she 
hardly doubted; and yet she would not 
send any letter. Perhaps it would be bet- 
ter that the matter should be allowed to 
drop without any letter-writing. She 
would never reproach him, though she 
would ever think him to be a traitor. 
Would not she have starved herself for 
him ? Could she so have served him ? And 
yet he could bear for her sake no touch of 
delay in his prosperity ! Would she not 
have been content to wait, and always to 
wait, so that he, with some word of love, 
would have told her that he waited also ? 
But he would not only desert her, but 
would give himself to that false, infamous 
woman, who was so wholly unfitted to be 
his wife. For Lucy, though to herself she 
would call him a traitor, and would think 
him to be a traitor, still regarded him as 
the best of mankind ; as one who, in mar- 
rying such a one as Lizzie Eustace, would 
destroy all his excellence, as a man might 
mar his strength and beauty by falling 
into a pit. For Lizzie Eustace Lucy Mor- 
ris had now no forgiveness. Lucy had al- 
most forgotten Lizzie’s lies, and her prof- 
fered bribe, and all her meanness, when 
she made that visit to Hertford street. 
Then when Lizzie claimed this man as her 
lover, a full remembrance of all the wom- 
an’s iniquities came back on Lucy’s mind. 
The statement that Lizzie then made Lucy 
did believe. She did think that Frank, 
her Frank, the man whom she worshipped, 
was to take this harpy to his bosom as his 
wife ; and if it were to be so, was it not 
better that she should be so told? But 
from that moment poor Lizzie’s sins were 
ranker to Lucy Morris than even to Mr. 
Camperdown or Mrs. Hittaway. She 
could not refrain from saying a word even 
to old Lady Linlithgow. The countess 
had called lier niece a little liar. “ Liar ! ” 
said Lucy, “ I do not think Satan him- 
self can lie as she does.” “ Heigh ty- 
tighty,” said the countess. “ I suppose, 
then, there’s to be a match between Lady 
Satan and her cousin Frank?” “They 
can do as they like about that,” said 
Lucy, walking out of the room. 

Then came the paragraph in the fash- 


ionable evening newspaper ; after that, the 
report of the examination before the mag- 
istrate ; and then certain information that 
Lady Eustace was about to proceed to 
Scotland together with her cousin, Mr. 
Greystock, the Member for Bobsborough. 
“ It is a large income,” said the countess, 
“ but, upon my word, she’s dear at the 
money.” Lucy did not speak, but she bit 
her lip till the blood ran into her mouth. 
She was going down to Fawn Court al- 
most immediately, to stay there with her 
old friends till she should be able to find 
some permanent home for herself. Once, 
and once only, would she endure discus- 
sion, and then the matter should be ban- 
ished forever from her tongue. 

Early on the appointed morning Frank 
Greystock, with a couple of cabs, was at 
Mrs. Carbuncle’s door in Hertford street. 
Lizzie had agreed to start by a very early 
train— at eight A. M. — so that she might 
get through to Portray in one day. It had 
been thought expedient, both by herself 
and by her cousin, that for the present 
there should be no more sleeping at the 
Carlisle hotel. The robbery was probably 
still talked about in that establishment ; 
and the report of the proceedings at the 
police-court had no doubt travelled as far 
north as the border city. It was to be a 
long day, and could hardly be other than 
sad. Lizzie, understanding this, feeling 
that though she had been in a great meas- 
ure triumphant over her difficulties before 
the magistrate, she ought still to consider 
herself, for a short while, as being under a 
cloud, crept down into the cab and seated 
herself beside her cousin, almost without 
a word. She was again dressed in black, 
and again wore the thick veil. Her maid, 
with the luggage, followed them, and they 
were driven to Euston Square almost with- 
out a word. On this occasion no tall foot- 
man accompanied them. “0, Frank ; dear 
Frank,” she had said, and that was all. 
He had been active about the luggage and 
useful in giving orders ; but beyond his 
directions and inquiries as to the journey 
he spoke not a word. Had she breakfast- 
ed? Would she have a cup of tea at the 
station? Should he take any luncheon for 
her ? At every question she only looked 
into his face and shook her head. All 
thoughts as to creature comforts were 
over with her now forever. Tranquillity, 
a little poetry, and her darling boy, were 
all that she needed for the short remainder 


a32 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


of her sojourn upon earth. These were 
the sentiments which she intended to con- 
vey when she shook her head and looked 
up into his eyes. The world was over for 
her. She had had her day of pleasure, 
and found how vain it was. Now she 
would devote herself to her child. “ I 
shall see my boy again to-night,” she 
said, as she took her seat in the carriage. 

Such was the state of mind, or such, 
rather, the resolutions, with wdiich .she 
commenced her journey. Should he be- 
come bright, communicative and pleasant, 
or even tenderly silent, or perhaps, now at 
length, affectionate and demonstrative, she 
no doubt might be able to change as he 
changed. He had been cousinly but 
gloomy at the; police-court ; in the same 
mood when he brought her home ; and, as 
she saw with the first glance of her eye, 
in the same mood again when she met him 
in the hall this morning. Of course she 
must play his tunes. Is it not the fate of 
women to play the tunes which men dic- 
tate, e:xcept in some rare case in which 
the wiroan can make herself the dictator? 
Lizzie loved^to be a dictator ; but at the 
present moment she knew that circum- 
stances were against her. 

She watched him— .so clo.sely. At first 
he slept a good deal. He was never in bed 
very early, and on this morning had been 
up at six. At Rugby he got out and ate 
what he said was his breakfast. Would 
she not have a cup of tea? Again she 
shook her head and smiled. She smiled 
as some women smilje when you offer them 
a third glass of champagne. “You are 
joking with me, I know. You cannot 
think that l^would take it.” This was 
the m^'fifeg of Lizzie’s smile. He went 
into t|^spefreshment-room, growled at the 
heat of the tea and the abominable nasti- 
ness of the food provided, and then, after 
the allotted five minutes, took himself to 
a smoking-carriage. He did not rejoin 
his cousin till they were at Crewe. When 
he went back to his old seat, she only 
smiled again. He asked her whether she 
had slept, and again she shook her head. 
She had been repeating to herself the ad- 
dress to lanthe’s soul, and her whole be- 
ing was pervaded with poetry. 

it was absolutely necessary, as he 
thought, that she should eat something, 
and he insisted that she should dine upon 
the road, somewhere. He, of course, was 
not aware that she had been nibbling bis- 


cuits and chocolate while he had been 
smoking, and had had recourse even to 
the comfort of a sherry flask which she 
carried in her dressing-bag. When he 
talked of dinner she did more than smile 
and refuse. She expostulated. For she 
well knew that the twenty minutes for 
dinner were allowed at the Carlisle sta- 
tion ; and even if there had been no choc- 
olate and no shen-y, she would have en- 
dured on, even up to absolute inanition, 
rather than step out upon this well-re- 
membered platform. “ You mu.st eat, or 
you’ll be starved,” he .said. “ I’ll fetch 
you something.” So he bribed a .special 
waiter, and she was supplied with cold 
chicken and more sherry. After this 
Frank smoked again, and did not reap- 
pear till they had reached Dumfries. 

Hitherto there had been no tenderness 
— nothing but the coldest cousinship. He 
clearly meant her to understand that he 
had submitted to the task of accompany- 
ing her back to Portray Castle as a duty, 
but that he had nothing to say to one who 
had so misbehaved herself. This was very 
irritating. She could have taken herself 
home to Portray without his company, 
and have made the journey more endura- 
ble without him than with him, if this 
were to be his conduct throughout. They 
had had the carriage to themselves all the 
way from Crewe to Carlisle, and he had 
hardly spoken a word to her. If he would 
have rated her soundly for her wicked- 
nesses, she could have made something of 
that. She could have thrown herself on 
her knees, and implored his pardon ; or, 
if hard pre.ssed, have suggested the pro- 
priety of throwing herself out of the car- 
riage-window. She could have brought 
him round if he would only have talked 
to her, but there is no doing anything 
with a silent man. He was not her mas- 
ter. He had no power over her. She was 
the lady of Portray, and he could not in- 
terfere with her. If he intended to be 
sullen with her to the end, and to show 
his contempt for her, she would turn 
agaiast him. “ The worm will turn,” she 
said to herself. And jmt she did not think 
hei’self a worm. 

A few stations bejmnd Dumfries they 
were again alone. It was now quite dark, 
and they had already been travelling over 
ten hours. They would not reach their 
own station till eight, and then again 
there would be the journey to Portray. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


333 


At last he spoke to her. “ Are you tired, 
Lizzie ? ” 

“ Oh, so tired ! ” 

“ You have slept, I think ? ” 

“ No, not once ; not a wink. You have 
slept.” This she said in a tone of re- 
proach . 

“ Indeed I have.” 

“ I have endeavored to read, but one 
cannot command one’s mind at all times. 
Oh, I am so weary. Is it much farther? 
I have lost all reckoning as to time and 
place.’’ 

“We change at the next station but 
one. It will soon be over now. Will you 
have a glass of sherry? I have some in 
my flask.” Again she shook her head. 
“It is a long way down to Portray, I 
must own.” 

“ Oh, I am so sorry that I have given 
you the trouble to accompany me.” 

“ I was not thinking of myself. I don’t 
mind it. It was better that you should 
have somebody with you — just for this 
journey.” 

“ I don’t know why this journey should 
be difierent from any other,” said Lizzie 
crossly. She had not done anything that 
made it necessary that she should be taken 
care of— like a naughty girl. 

“ I’ll see you to the end of it now, any- 
way.” 

“ And you’ll stay a few da3’s with me, 
Frank? You won’t go away at once? 
Say 3' oil’ll stay a week. Dear, dear 
Frank ; say you’ll stay a week. I know 
that the House doesn’t meet for ever so 
long. Oh, Frank, I do so wish 3^0 u’d be 
more like yourself.” There was no reason 
why she should not make one other eflbrt, 
and as she made it every sign of fatigue 
passed away from her. 

“I’ll stay over to-morrow certainly,” 
he replied. 

“ Only one day !” 

“ Da3's with me mean mone3% Lizzie, 
and money is a thing which is at present 
very necessary to me.” 

“ I hate money.” 

“ That’s very well for you because you 
iiave plenty of it.” 

“ I hate money. It ls the only thing 
that one has that one cannot give to those 
one loves. I could give 3’Ou anything else 
— though it cost a thousand pounds.” 

“ Pray don’t. Most people like pres- 
ents, but they only bore me.” 

“ Because you are so indififerent, Frank ; 


so cold. Do 3^011 remember giving me a 
little ring?” 

“ Very well indeed. It cost eight and 
sixpence.” 

“I never thought what it cost; but 
there it is.” This she said drawing ofl’ 
her glove and showing him her finger. 
“ And when I am dead there it will be. 
You say you want money, Frank. May 1 
not give it you ? Are not we brother and 
sister?” 

“ M3^ dear Lizzie, you say 3^011 hate 
money. Don’t talk about it.” 

“ It is you that talk about it. 1 only 
talk about it because 1 want to give it 
you ; 3’^es, all that I have. When I first 
knew what was the real meaning of my 
husband’s will, my only thought was to 
be of assistance to you.” 

In real truth Frank was becoming very 
sick of her. It seemed to him now to 
have been almost impossible that he 
should ever soberly have thought of mak- 
ing her his wife. The charm was all 
gone, and even her prettiness had in his 
eyes lost its value. He looked at her, 
asking himself whether in truth she was 
pretty. She had been travelling all da3'-, 
and perhaps the scrutiny Avas not fair. 
But he thought that even after the longest 
day’s journey Luc3’’ would not have been 
soiled, haggard, dishevelled, and unclean, 
as was this woman. 

Travellers again entered the carriage, 
and they went on Avith a croAvd of persons 
till they reached the platform at Avhich 
they changed the carriage for Troon. 
Then they were again alone, for a fcAV 
minutes, and Lizzie with infinite courage 
determined that she AA'Ould make her last 
attempt. “Frank,” she said, “you 
knoAv Avhat it is that I mean. You can- 
not feel that I am ungenerous. You have 
made me love you. Will you have all that 
I haA'e to give?” She was leaning over 
close to him, and he Avas observing that 
her long lock of hair Avas out of curl and 
untidy, a thing that ought not to haA’e 
been during such a journey as this. 

“Do you not know,” he said, “ that I 
am engaged to marry Lucy Morris? ” 

“ No ; I do not knoAv it.” 

“ I have told you so more than once.” 

“ You cannot afford to marry her.” 

“ Then I shall do*it Avithout affording.’’ 

Lizzie was about to speak, had already 
pronounced her rival’s name, in that tone 
of contempt which she so well kncAV how 


334 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


to use, when he stopped her. “ Do not 
Bay anything against l\er, Lizzie, in my 
hearing, for I will not bear it. It would 
force me to leave you at the Troon sta- 
tion, and I had better see you now to the 
end of the journey. ’ ’ Lizzie flung herself 
back into the corner of her carriage, and 
did not utter another word till she reach- 
ed Portray Castle. He handed her out of 
the railway carriage and into her own ve- 
hicle which was waiting for them, at- 
tended to the maid, and got the luggage ; 
but still she did not speak. It would be 
better that she should quarrel with him. 
That little snake Lucy, would of course 
now tell him of the meeting between them 
in Hertford street, after which anything 
but quarrelling would be impossible. 
What a fool the man must be, what an 
idiot, what a soft-hearted, mean-spirited 
fellow ! Lucy, by her sly, quiet little 
strategems, had got him once to speak the 
word, and now he had not courage enough 
to go back from it ! He had less strength 
of will even than Lord Fawn ! What 
she ofiered to him would be the making 
of him. With his position, his seat in 
Parliament, such a country house as Por- 
tray Castle, and the income which she 
would give him, there was nothing that 
he might not reach ! And he was so in- 
firm of purpose that though he had hank- 
ered after it all he would not open his 
hand to take it, because he was afraid of 
such a little thing as Lucy Morris! It 
was thus that she thought of him as she 
leaned back in the carriage without speak- 
ing. In giving her all that is due to her 
we must acknowledge that she had less 
feeling of the inj ury done to her charms as 
a woman than might have been expected. 
That she hated. Lucy was a matter of 
course ; and equally so that she should be 
very angry with Frank Greystock ; but 
the anger arose from general disappoint- 
ment rather than from any sense of her 
own despised beauty. “Ah, now I shall 
see my child,” she said, as the carriage 
stopped at the castle gate. 

AVhen Frank Greystock went to his 
supper Miss Macnulty brought to him his 
cousin’s compliments with a message say- 
ing that she was too weary to see him 
again that night. The message had been 
intended to be curt fftid uncourteous, but 
Miss Macnulty had softened it, so that no 
harm was done. “ She must be very 
weary,” said Frank. 


“ I supposed though that nothing would 
ever really tire Lady Eustace,” said Miss 
Macnulty. “ When she is excited noth- 
ing will tire her. Perhaps the journey 
has been dull.” 

“ Exceedingly dull ! ” said Frank, as he 
helped himself to the collops which the 
Portray cook had prepared for his sapper 

Miss Macnulty was very attentive to 
him and had many questions to ask. 
About the necklace she hardly dared to 
speak, merely observing how sad it was 
that all those precious diamonds should 
have been lost forever. “ Very sad in- 
deed,” said Frank with his mouth full. 
She then went on to the marriage — the 
marriage that was no marriage. Was not 
that very dreadful? Was it true that 
Miss Roanoke was really — out of her 
mind? Frank acknowledged that it 
was dreadful, but thought that the mar- 
riage had it been completed would have 
been more so. As for the young lady he 
only knew that she had been taken some- 
where out of the way. Sir Griffin, he 
had been told, had gone to Japan. 

“ To Japan I ” said Miss Macnulty, re- 
ally interested. Had Sir Griffin gone no 
farther than Boulogne her pleasure in the 
news would certainly have been much 
less. Then she nsked some single ques- 
tion about Lord George, and from that 
came to the real marrow of her anxiet}'. 
Had Mr. Greystock lately seen the — the 
Rev. Mr. Emilius? Frank had not seen 
the clergyman, and could only say of him 
that had Lucinda Roanoke and Sir Griffin 
Tewett been made one, the knot would 
have been tied by Mr. Emilius. 

“ Would it indeed? Did you not think 
Mr. Emilius very clever when you met 
him down here? ” 

“ I don’t doubt but what he is a sharp 
sort of fellow.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Greystock, 1 don't think that 
that’s the word for him at all. He did 
promise me when he was here that he 
would write to me occasionally, but I sup- 
pose that the increasing duties of his posi- 
tion have rendered that impossible.” 
Frank, who had no idea of the extent of 
the preacher’s ambition, assured Miss 
Macnulty that among his multifarious 
clerical labors it was out of the question 
that Mr. Emilius should find time to write 
letters. 

Frank had consented to stay one day at 
Portray, and did rot now like to run 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


335 


away without again seeing his cousin. 
Though much tempted to go at once, he 
did stay the day, and had an opportunity 
of speaking a few words to Mr. Gowran. 
Mr. Gowran was very gracious, but said 
nothing of his journey up to London. He 
asked various questions concerning her 
“ leddyship’s ” appearance at the police 
court, as to which tidings had already 
reached Ayrshire, and pretended to be 
greatly shocked at the loss of the dia- 
monds. “ When they talk o’ ten thoo- 
sand poond that’s a lee nae doobt?” 
asked Andy. 

“ No lie at all, 1 believe,” said Grey- 
stock. 

“ And her leddyship wad tak’ aboot wi’ 
her ten thoosand poond in a box ? ’ ’ Andy 
still showed much doubt by the angry 
glance of his eye and the close compres- 
sion of his lips 'and the great severity of 
his demeanor as he asked the question. 

“ I know nothing about diamonds my- 
self, but that is what they say they were 
worth.” 

“ Her leddyship her ain sell seems nae 
to ha’ been in ain story aboot the box. 
Muster Greystock?” But Frank could 
not stand to be cross-questioned on this 
delicate matter, and walked off, saying 
that as the thieves had not yet been tried 
for the robbery, the less said about it the 
better. 

At four o’clock on that afternoon he 
had not seen Lizzie, and then he received 
a message from her to the effect that she 
was still so unwell from the fatigue of her 
journey that she could bear no one with 
her but her child. She hoped that her 
cousin was quite comfortable, and that 
she might be able to see him after break- 
fast on the following day. But Frank 
was determined to leave Portray very 
early on the following day, and therefore 
wrote a note to his cousin. He begged 
that she would not disturb herself, that 
he would leave the castle the next morn- 
ing before she could be up, and that he 
had only further to remind her that she 
must come up to London at once as soon 
as she should be summoned for the trial 
of Mr. Benjamin and his comrade. It 
had seemed to Frank that she had almost 
concluded that her labors connected with 
that disagreeable matter were at an end. 
“ The examination may be long, and I 
will attend you if you wish it,” said her 
30usin. Upon receiving this she thought 


it expedient to come down to him, and 
there was an interview for about a quar- 
ter of an hour in her own little sitting- 
room, looking out upon the sea. She had 
formed a project, and at once suggested it 
to him. If she found herself ill when the 
day of the trial came, could they make her 
go up and give her evidence ? Frank told 
her that they could and that they would. 
She was very clever about it. “ They 
couldn’t go back to what I said at Car- 
lisle, you know; because they already 
have made me tell all that myself.” As 
she had been called upon to criminate her- 
self she could not now be tried for the 
crime. Frank, however, would not listen 
to this, and told her that she must come. 
“ Very well, Frank. I know you like to 
have your own way. You always did. 
And you think so little of my feelings? I 
shall make inquiry and if I must why I 
suppose I must.” 

“You’d better make up your mind to 
come.” 

“ Very well. And now, Frank, as 1 
am so very tired, if you please. I’ll say 
good-by to you. I am very much obliged 
to you for coming with me. Good-by.” 
And so they parted. 


CHAPTER LXXVH. 

THE STCRY OF LUCY MORRIS IS CONCLUDED. 

On the day appointed, Lucy Morris 
went back from the house of the old 
countess to Fawn Court. “My dear,” 
said Lady Linlithgow, “ I am sorry that 
you are going. Perhaps you’ll think I 
haven’t been very kind to you, but I never 
am kind. People have always been hard to 
me, and I’m hard. But I do like you.” 

“ I’m glad you like me, as we have 
lived together so long.” 

“ You may go on staying here, if you 
choose, and I’ll try to make it better.” 

“ It hasn’t been bad at all, only that 
there’s nothing particular to do. But I 
must go. I shall get another place as a 
governess somewhere, and that will suit 
me best.” 

“ Because of the money, you mean.” 

“ Well — that in part.” 

“ I mean to pay you something,” said 
the countess, opening her pocket-book, 
and fumbling for two bank-notes which 
she had desposited there. 

“ Oh, dear no. I haven’t earned any- 
thing.” 


336 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ 1 always gave Macnulty something, 
and she was not near so nice as you.” 
And then the countess produced two ten- 
pound notes. But Lucy would have none 
of her money, and when she was pressed, 
became proud and almost indignant in her 
denial. She had earned nothing, and she 
would take nothing ; and it was in vain 
that the old lady spread the clean bits of 
paper before her. “ And so you’ll go 
and be a governess again ; will you ? ” 

“ When I can get a place.” 

“ I’ll tell you what, my dear. If I 
were Frank Greystock, I’d stick to my 
bargain.” Lucy at once fell a-crying, 
but she smiled’ upon the old woman 
through her tears. “ Of course he’s go- 
ing to marry that little limb of the devil.” 

“ Oh, Lady Linlithgow, if you can, 
prevent that ! ” 

“How am I to prevent it, my dear? 
I’ve nothing to say to either of them.” 

“ It isn’t for myself I’m speaking. If 
I can’t — if I can’t — can’t have things go 
os I thought they would by myself, I will 
never ask any one to help me. It Is not 
that I mean. I have given all that up.” 

“ You have given it up ? 

“Yes; I have. But nevertheless I 
think of him. She is bad, and he will 
never be happy if he marries her. AVhen 
he asked me to be his wife, he was mis- 
taken as to what would be good for him. 
He ought not to have made such a mis- 
take. For my sake he ought not.” 

“ That’s quite true, my dear.” 

“ But I do not wish him to be unhappy 
all his life. He is not bad, but she is 
very bad. I would not for worlds that 
anybody should tell him that he owed me 
anything ; but if he could be saved from 
her, oh, I should be so glad.” 

“ You won’t have my money, then? ” 

“No, Lady Linlithgow.” 

“You’d better. It is honestly your 
own.” 

“ I will not take it, thank you.” 

“ Then I may as well put it up again.” 
And the countess replaced the notes in 
her pocket-book. AYhen this conversa- 
tion took place, Frank Gre 3 'stock was 
travelling back alone from Portray to 
London. On the sameda}’- the Fawn car- 
riage came to fetch Lucy awa 3 ^ As Lucy 
was in peculiar distress. Lady Fawn 
would not allow her to come by any other 
convejmnce. She did not exactly think 
that the carrias:© would console her poor 


favorite ; but she did it as she would have 
ordered something specially nice to eat 
for any one who had broken his leg. Her 
soft heart had compassion for misery, 
though she would sometimes show her 
sympathy by strange expressions. Lady 
Linlithgow was almost angry about the 
carriage. “How many carriages and 
how many horses does Lady Fawn keep ? ” 
she asked. 

“ One carriage and two horses.” 

“ She’s very fond of sending them up into 
the streets of London, I think.” Lucy 
said nothing more, knowing that it would 
be impossible to soften the heart of this 
dowager in regard to the other. But she 
kissed the old woman at parting, and 
then was taken down to Richmond in 
state. 

She had made up her mind to have one 
discussion with Lady Fawn about her en- 
gagement, the engagement which was no 
longer an engagement, and then to have 
done w’ith it. She would ask Lady Fawn 
to ask the girls never to mention Mr. 
Greystock’s name in her hearing. Lad\’ 
Fawn had also made up her mind to the 
same effect. She felt that the subject 
should be mentioned once, and^once only. 
Of course Lucy must have another place, 
but there need be no hurry about that. 
She fully recognized her j’oung friend’s 
feeling of independence, and was herself 
aware that she would be wrong to offer 
to the girl a permanent home among her 
own daughters, and therefore she could 
not abandon the idea of a future place ; 
but Lucy would, of course, remain till a 
situation should been found for her that 
would be in every sense unexceptionable. 
There need, however, be no haste, and, in 
the meantime, the few words about Frank 
Greystock must be spoken. They need 
not, however, be spoken quite immediate- 
ly. Let there be smiles, and joy, and a 
merry ring of laughter on this the first 
day of the return of their old friend. As 
Lucy had the same feelings on that after- 
noon they did talk pleasantly and were 
merry. The girls asked questions about 
the Vulturess, as they had heard her 
called by Lizzie Eustace, and laughed at 
Lucy, to her face, when she swore that, 
after a fashion, she liked the old woman. 

“You’d like anj-body, then,” said 
Nina. 

“ Indeed I don’t,” said Lucy, thinking 
at once of Lizzie Eustace. 


THE EUSTACE -DIAMONDS. 


337 


Lady Fawn planned out the next day 
with great precision. After breakfast, 
Lucy and the girls were to spend the 
morning in the old school-room, so that 
there might be a general explanation as 
to the doings of the last six months. 
They were to dine at three, and after din- 
ner there should be the discussion. “ VV'ill 
you come up to my room at four o’clock, 
my dear?” said Lady Fawn, patting 
Lucy’s shoulder, in the breakfast-parlor. 
Lucy knew well why her presence was 
required. Of course she would come. 
It would be wise to get it over, and have 
done with it. • 

At noon Lady Fawn, with her three 
eldest daughters, went out in the car- 
riage, and Lucy was busy among the 
others with books and maps and sheets of 
scribbled music. Nothing was done on 
that day in the way of instruction ; but 
there was much of half-jocose acknowl- 
edgment of past idleness, and a profu- 
sion of resolutions of future diligence. 
One or two of the girls were going to 
commence a course of reading that would 
have broken the back of any professor, 
and suggestions were made as to very 
rigid rules as to the talking of French 
and German. “ But as we can’t talk 
German,” said Nina, “ we should simply 
be dumb.” “You’d talk High-Dutch, 
Nina, sooner than submit to that,” said 
one of the sisters. 

The conclave was still sitting in full de- 
liberation, when one of the maids entered 
the room with a very long face. There 
was a gentleman in the drawing-room 
asking for Miss Morris ! Lucy, who at 
the moment was standing at a table on 
which were spread an infinity of books,' 
became at once as white as a sheet. Her 
fast friend, Lydia Fawn, who was stand- 
ing by her, immediately took hold of her 
hand quite tightly. The face of the maid 
was fit for a funeral. She knew that Miss 
Morris had had a “ follower,” that the 
follower had come, and that then ^Miss 
Morris had gone away. Miss Morris had 
been allowed to come back ; and now, on 
the very first day, just when my lady’s 
back was turned, here was the follower 
again ! Before she had come up with her 
message, there had been an unanimous 
expression of opinion in the kitchen that 
the fat would all be in the fire. Lucy 
was as white as marble, and felt such a 
Budden shock at her heart, that she could 


not speak. And yet she never doubted 
for a moment that Frank Greystock was 
the man. And with what purpose but 
one could he have come there? She had 
on the old, old frock in which, before her 
visit to Lady Linlithgow, she used to pass 
the morning, amid her labors with tlie 
girls, a pale, gray, well-worn frock, tu 
which must have been imparted some at- 
traction from the milliner’s art, because 
everybody liked it so well, but which she 
had put on this very merging as a testi- 
mony, to all the world around her, that 
she had abandoned the idea of being any- 
thing except a governess. Lady Fawn 
had understood the frock well. “Here is 
the dear little old woman just the same 
as ever,” Lydia had said, embracing her. 
“ She looks as if she’d gone to bed before 
the wintor, and had a long sleep, like a 
dormouse,” said Cecilia. Lucy had liked 
it all, and thoroughly appreciated the 
loving-kindness ; but she had known what 
it all meant. She had left them as the 
engaged bride of Mr. Greystock, the mem- 
ber for Bobsborough ; and now she had 
come back as Lucy Morris, the governess, 
again. “Just the same as ever,” Lucy 
had said, with the sweetest smile. They 
all understood that in so saying she re- 
nounced her lover. 

And now there stood the maid, inside 
the room, who, having announced that 
there was a gentleman asking for Miss 
Morris, was waiting for an answer. Was 
the follower to be sent about his business, 
with a flea in his ear, having come, slyly, 
craftily, and wickedly, in Lady Fawn’s 
absence ; or would Miss Morris brazen it 
out, and go and see him? 

“ \Yho is the gentleman ? ” asked Di- 
ana, who was the eldest of the Fawn girls 
present. 

“It’s he as used to come after Mis.s 
Morris before,” said the maid. 

“It is Mr. Greystock,” said Lucy, re- 
covering herself with an efibrt. “ I had 
better go down to him. Will you tell 
him, Mary, that I’ll be with him almost 
immediately? ” 

“ You ought to have put on the other 
frock, after all,” said Nina, whispering 
into her ear. 

“ He has not lost much time in coming 
to see imu,” said Lydia. 

“ I suppose it was all because he didn’t 
like Lady Linlithgow,” said Cecilia. 
Lucy had not a word to say. She stood 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 




fur a minute among them, trying to think, 
and then she slowly left the room. 

She would not condescend to alter her 
dress by the aid of a single pin, nor by the 
adjustment of a ribbon. It might well be 
that, after the mingled work and play of 
the morning, her hair should not be 
smooth ; but she was too proud to look at 
her hair. The man whom she had loved, 
wlio had loved her but had neglected her, 
was in the house. He would surely not 
have followed her thither did he not in- 
tend to make reparation for his neglect. 
But she wmuld use no art with him ; nor 
would she make any entreat3^ It might 
be that, after all, he had the courage to 
come and tell her, in a manly, straight- 
forward Avay, that the thing must be all 
over, that he had made a mistake, and 
Avould beg her pardon. If it were so, 
there sliould be no Avord of reproach. She 
would be quite quiet with him ; but there 
should be no Avord of reproach. But 

if in that other case, she could not 

be sure of her behavior ; but she kncAV 
well that he would not have to ask lonir 
for forgiveness. As for her dress, he had 
chosen to love her in that frock before, 
and she did not think that he Avould pay 
much attention to her dress on the pres- 
ent occasion. 

She opened the door very quietly and 
very slowly, intending to approach him 
in the same Avay ; but in a moment, be- 
fore she could remember that she was in 
the room, he had seized her in his arms, 
and was shoAvering kisses upon her fore- 
head, her ej’es, and her lips. When she 
thought of it aftei-AA'ards, she could not 
call to mind a single Avord that he had 
spoken before he held her in his embrace. 
It Avas she, surely, who had spoken first, 
Avhen she begged to be released from his 
pressure. But she well remembered the 
first words that struck her ear. “ Dear- 
est Lucy, AAdll you forgive me?” She 
could only answer them , through her tears, 
by taking up his hand and kissing it. 

When Lady Fawn came back with the 
carriage, she herself saw the figures of 
two persons, walking very close together, 
in the shrubberies. “Is that Lucy?” 
she asked. 

“ Yes ; ” said Augusta, Avith a tone of 
horror. “ Indeed it is ; and — Mr. Grey- 
stock.” 

Lady FaAvn Avas neither shocked nor 
displeased ; nor Avas she disappointed ; 


but a certain faint feeling of being ill-used 
by circumstances came over her. “Dear 
me ; the very first day ! ” she said. 

“ It’s because he VA^ouldn’t go to Lady 
LinlithgoAv’s,” said Amelia. “He ha^s 
only waited, mamma.” 

“ But the A'ery first day ! ” exclaimed 
Lady Fawm. “ I hope Lucy Avill be hap- 
py; that’s all.” 

There was a great meeting of all the 
Fawns, as soon as Lady Fawn and the 
eldest girls Avere in the house. Mr. 
Greystock had been AAmlking about the 
grounds with Lucy for the last hour and a 
half. Lucy had come in once to beg that 
Lady Fawn might be told directly she 
came in. “ She said j'ou were to send for 
her, mamma,” said Lydia. 

“ But it’s dinner-time, my dear. What 
are yve to do with Mr. Greystock ? ’ ’ 

“Ask him to lunch, of course,” said 
Amelia. 

“ I suppose it’s all right,” said Lady 
Fawn. 

“I’m quite sure it’s all right,” said 
Nina. 

“What did she say to you, Lydia?” 
asked the mother. 

“ She Avas as happy as ever she could 
be,” said L3^dia. “ There’s no doubt 
about it’s being all right, mamma. She 
looked just as she did when she got the 
letter from him before.” 

“ I hope she managed to change her 
frock,” said Augusta. 

“ She didn’t then,” said Cecilia. 

“ I don’t suppose he cares one half- 
penny about her frock,” said Nina. “ I 
should never think about a man’s coat if ' 
I was in love.” 

“Nina, you shouldn’t talk in that 
VA'ay,” said Augusta Whereupon Nina 
made a face behind one of her sister’s 
backs. Poor Augusta was never allowed 
to be a prophetess among them. 

The consultation was ended by a de- 
cision in accordance Avith Avhich Nina 
Avent as an ambassador to the lovers. 
Lady Fawn sent her compliments to Mr. 
Gre3^stock, and hoped he would come in 
to lunch. Lucy must come in to dinner, 
because dinner was ready. “ And mam- 
ma wants to see you just for a minute,” 
added Nina, in a pretended whisper. 

“ Oh, Nina, 3mu darling girl ! ” said 
Lucy, kissing her 3*oung friend in an 
ecstasy of joy. 

“ It’s all right ? ’ ’ asked Nina in a whis- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


339 


per which was really intended for privacy. 
Lacy did not answer the question other- 
wise than by another kiss. 

Frank Greystock was, of course, obliged 
to take his seat at the table, and was en- 
tertained with a profusion of civility. 
Everybody knew that he had behaved 
badly, to Lucy — everybody, except Lucy 
herself, who, from this time forward, al- 
together forgot that she had for some 
time looked upon him as a traitor, and 
had made up her mind that she had been 
deceived and ill-used. All the Fawns 
had spoken of him, in Lucy’s absence, in 
the hardest terms of reproach, and de- 
clared that he was not fit to be spoken to 
by any decent person. Lady Fawn had 
known from the first that such a one as he 
was not to be trusted. Augusta had 
never liked him. Amelia had feared that 
poor Lucy Morris had been unwise, and 
too ambitious. Georgina had seen that, 
of course, it would never do. Diana had 
sworn that it was a great shame. Lydia 
was sure that Lucy was a great deal too 
good for him. Cecilia had wondered 
where he would go to ; a form of anathe- 
ma which had brought down a rebuke 
from her mother. And Nina had alwaj^s 
hated him like poison. But now nothing 
wa.s too good for him. An unmarried 
man who is willing to sacrifice himself is, 
in feminine eyes, always worthy of rib- 
Ijons and a chaplet. Among all these 
Fawns there was as little selfishness as 
can be found, even among women. The 
lover was not the lover of one of them- 
selves, but of their governess. And yet, 
though he desired neither to eat nor drink 
at that hour, something special had been 
cooked for him, and a special bottle of 
wine had been brought out of the cellar. 
All his sins were forgiven him. No sin- 
gle question was asked as to his gross 
misconduct during the last six months. 
No pledge or guarantee was demanded for 
the future. There he was, in the gui.se 
of a declared lover, and the fatted calf 
was killed. 

After this early dinner it was necessary 
that he should return to town, and Lucy 
obtained leave to walk with him to the 
station. To her thinking now, there was 
nc sin to be forgiven. Everything was, 
and had been, just as it ought to be. Had 
any human being hinted that he had 
sinned, she would have defended him to 
the death. Something was said between 


them about Lizzie, but nothing that arose 
from jealousy. Not till many months 
had pasvsed did she tell him of Lizzie’s 
me.ssage to herself, and of her visit to 
Hertford street ; but they spoke of the 
necklace, and poor Lucy shuddered as she 
was told the truth about those false oaths. 
“ I really do think that, after that. Lord 
Fawn is right,*’ she said, looking round 
at her lover. “Yes; but what he did, 
he did before that,” said Frank. “But 
are they not good and kind? ’’she said, 
pleading for her friends. “ Was ever 
anybody so well treated as they have 
treated me? I’ll tell you what, sir, you 
musn’t quarrel with Lord Fawn any 
more. I won’t allow it.” Then she 
walked back from the station alone, al- 
most bewildered by her own happiness. 

That evening something like an expla- 
nation was demanded by Lady Fawn, but 
no explanation was forthcoming. When 
questions were asked about his silence, 
Lucy, half in joke and half in earnest, 
fired up and declared that everything had 
been as natural as possible. He could 
not have come to Lady Linlithgow’s 
hou.se. Lady Linlithgow would not re- 
ceive him. No doubt she had been* im- 
patient, but then that had been her fault. 
Had he not come to her the very first day 
after her return to Richmond? When 
Augusta said something as to letters 
which might have been written, Lucy 
snubbed her. “ Who says he didn’t 
write. He did write. If I am contented, 
why should you complain?” “Oh, I 
don’t complain,” said Augusta. 

Then questions were asked as to the 
future ; questions to wiiich Lady Fawn 
had a right to demand an answer. What 
did Mr. Gre5’stock propose to do now? 
Then Lucy broke down, sobbing, crying, 
triumphing, with mingled love and happi- 
ness. She was to go to the deanery. 
Frank had brought with him a little note 
to her from his mother, in which she was 
invited to make the deanery at Bobs- 
borough her home for the present. 

“ And you are to go away just when 
you’ve come?” asked Nina. 

“ Stay W'ith us a month, my dear,” 
said Lady Fawn, “just to let people know 
that we are friends, and after that the 
deanery will be the best home for you.” 
And so it was arranged. 

It need only be further said, in com- 


340 


. THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


pleting the history of Lucy Morris as far 
as it can be completed in these pages, that 
she did go to the deanery, and that there 
she was received with all the affection 
which Mrs. Greystock could show to an 
adopted daughter. Her quarrel had never 
been with Lucy personally — but with the 
untoward fact that her son would not 
marry money. At the deanery she re- 
mained for fifteen happy months, and then 
became Mrs. Greystock, with a bevy of 
Fawn bridesmaids around her. As the per- 
sonages of a chronicle such as this should 
all be made to operate backwards and for- 
wards on each other from the beginning 
to the end, it would have been desirable 
that the chronicler should have been able 
to report that the cerem(^ny was celebrated 
by Mr. Emilius ; but as the wedding did 
not take place till the end of the summer, 
and as Mr. Emilius, at that time, never re- 
mained in town after the season was over, 
this was impossible ; it was the Dean of 
Bobsborough, assisted by one of the minor 
canons, who performed the service. 


CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

THE TRIAL, 

Having told the tale of Lucy Morris to 
the end, the chronicler must now go back 
to the more important pei’sons of this his- 
tory. It was still early in April when 
Lizzie Eustace was taken down to Scot- 
land by her cousin, and the trial of Mr. 
Benjamin and Mr. Smiler was fixed to 
take place at the Central Criminal Court 
about the middle of May. Early in May 
the attorneys for the prosecution applied 
to Greystock, asking him whether he 
would make arrangements for his cousin’s 
appearance on the occasion, informing 
him that she had already been formally 
summoned. Whereupon he wrote to Liz- 
zie, telling her what she had better do, m 
the kindest manner — as though there had 
been no cessation of their friendly inter- 
course ; offering to go with her into court 
— and naming a hotel at which he would 
advise her to stay, during the very short 
time that she need remain in London. 
She answered this letter at once. She 
was sorry to say that she was much too ill 
to travel, or even to think of travelling. 
Such was her present condition that she 
doubted greatly whether she would ever 
again be able to leave the two rooms to 


which she was at present confined. All 
that remained to her in life was to watch 
her own blue waves from the casement of 
her dear husband’s castle— that casement 
at which he had loved to sit— and to make 
herself happy in the smiles of her child. 
A few months would see the last of it all, 
and then, perhaps, they who had tram- 
pled her to death would feel some pang of 
remorse as they thought of her early fate. 
She had given her evidence once and had 
told all the truth — though she was now 
aware that she need not have done so, as 
she had been defrauded of a vast amount 
of property through the gross negligence 
of the police. She was advised now by 
persons who seemed really to understand 
the law, that she could recover the value 
of the diamonds which her dear, dear 
husband had given her, from the free- 
holders of the parish in which the rob- 
bery had taken place. She feared that 
her health did not admit of the necessary 
exertion. Were it otherwise she would 
leave no stone unturned to recover the 
value of her propert}" — not on account of 
its value, but because she had been so ill- 
treated by Mr. Camperdown and the 
police. Then she added a postcript to say 
that it was quite out of the question that 
she should take any journey for the next 
six months. 

The reader need hardly be told that 
Greystock did not believe a word of what 
she said. He felt sure that she was not 
ill. There was an energy in the letter 
hardly compatible with illness. But he 
could not make her come. He certainly 
did not intend to go down again to Scot- 
land to fetch her ; and even had he done 
so he could not have forced her to accom- 
pany him. He could only go to the at- 
torneys concerned, and read to them so 
much of the letter as he thought fit to 
communicate to them. “That won’t do 
at all,” said an old gentleman at the head 
of the firm. “ She has been very lenient- 
ly treated, and she must come.” 

“ You must manage it, then,” said 
Frank. 

“ I hope she won’t give us trouble, be- 
cause if she does we must expose her,” 
said the second member. 

“ She has not even sent a medical cer- 
tificate,” said the tjTO of the firm, who 
was not quite so sharp as he will proba- 
bly become when he has been a member 
of it for ten or twelve years. You should 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


341 


never ask the ostler whether he greases 
his oats. In this case Frank Greystock 
was not exactly in the position of the 
ostler ; but he did inforn his cousin by 
letter that she would lay herself open to 
all manner of pains and penalties if she 
disobeyed such a summons as she had re- 
ceived, unless she did so by a very strong 
medical advice, backed by a medical cer- 
tificate. 

Lizzie, when she received this, had two 
strings to her bow. A writer from Ayr 
had told her that the summons sent to her 
was not worth the paper on which it was 
printed in regard to a resident in Scot- 
land ; and she had also got a doctor from 
the neighborhood who was satisfied that 
she was far too ill to travel up to London. 
Pulmonary debilitation was the complaint 
from which she was suffering, which, with 
depressed vitality in all the organs, and 
undue languor in all the bodily functions, 
would be enough to bring her to a speedy 
end if she so much as thought of making 
a journey up to London. A certificate to 
this effect was got in triplicate. One copy 
she sent to the attorneys, one to Frank, 
and one she kept herselL 

The matter was very pressing indeed. 
It was considered that the trial could not 
be postponed till the next sitting at the 
Criminal Court, because certain witnesses 
in respect to the diamonds had been pro- 
cured from Hamburgh and Vienna, at a 
very great cost ; they were actually on 
their way to London when Lizzie’s second 
letter was received. Mr. Camperdown 
had resolved to have the diamonds still, 
with a hope that they might be restored to 
the keeping of Messrs. Garnett, there to lie 
hidden and unused, at any rate, for the 
next twenty years. The diamonds had 
been traced first to Hamburgh and then to 
Vienna ; and it was to be proved that they 
were now adorning the bosom of a certain 
enormously rich Russian princess. From 
the grasp of the Russian princess it was 
found impossible to rescue them ; but the 
witnesses who, as it was hoped, might 
have aided Mr. Camperdown in his efforts, 
were to be examined at the trial. 

A confidential clerk was sent down to 
Portray, but the confidential clerk alto- 
gether failed in making his way into Liz- 
zie’s presence. Word was brought to 
him that nothing but force could take 
Lady Eustace from her bedchamber ; and 
that force used to that effect might take 


her out dead, but certainly not alive. He 
made inquiry, however, about the doctor, 
and found that he certainly was a doctor. 
If a doctor will certify that a lady is dy- 
ing, what can any judge do, or any jury? 
There are certain statements which, 
though they are false as hell, must be 
treated as though they were true as gos- 
pel. The clerk reported when he got back 
to London, that to his belief Lady Eus- 
tace was enjoying an excellent state of 
health ; but that he was perfectly certain 
that she would not appear as a witness at 
the trial. 

The anger felt by many persons as to 
Lizzie’s fraudulent obstinacy, was intense. 
Mr. Camperdown thought that she ought 
to be dragged up to London by cart ropes. 
The attorneys engaged for the prosecution 
were almost beside themselves. They did 
send down a doctor of their own, but Liz- 
zie would not see the doctor — would not 
see the doctor though threats of most 
frightful consequences were conveyed to 
her. She would be exposed, fined thou- 
sands of pounds, committed to jail for 
contempt of court, and prosecuted for per- 
jury into the bargain. But she was firm. 
She wrote one scrap of a note to the doc- 
tor who came from London, “ I shall not 
live to satisfy their rabid vengeance.” 
Even Frank Greystock felt almost more 
annoyed than gratified that she should be 
able thus to escape. People who had 
heard of the inquiry before the magis- 
trate, had postponed their excitement and 
interest on the occasion, because they knew 
that the day of the trial would be the 
great day ; and when they heard that 
they were to be robbed of the pleasure of 
Lady Eustace’s cross-examination, there 
arose almost a public feeling of wrath that 
justice should be thus outraged. The 
doctor who had given the certificate was 
vilified in the newspapers, and long arti- 
cles were written as to the impotence of 
the law. But Lizzie was successful, and 
the trial went on without her. 

It appeared that though her evidence 
was very desirable it was not absolutely 
essential, as, in consequence of her certi- 
fied illness, the statement which she had 
made at the police court could be brought 
up and used against the prisoners. All 
the facts of the robbery were, moreover, 
proved by Patience Crabstick and Billy 
Gann ; and the transfer of the diamonds 
by Mr Benjamin to the man who recut 


342 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


them at Hamburgh, was also proved. 
Many other morsels of collateral evidence 
had also been picked up by the police, so 
that there was no possible doubt as to any 
detail of the affair in Hertford street. 
There was a rumor that Mr. Benjamin in- 
tended to plead guilty. He might, per- 
haps, have done so had it not been for the 
absence of Lady Eustace ; but as that was 
thought to give him a possible chance of 
escape, he stood his ground. 

Lizzie’s absence was a great disappoint- 
ment to the sight-seers of London ; but 
nevertheless the court was crowded. It 
was understood that the learned sergeant 
who was retained on this occasion to de- 
fend Mr. Benjamin, and who was assisted 
by the acute gentleman who had appeared 
before the magistrate, would be rather se- 
vere upon Lady Eustace, even in her ab- 
sence ; and that he would ground his de- 
mand for an acquittal on the combined 
facts of her retention of the diamonds, her 
perjury, and of her obstinate refusal to 
come forward on the present occasion. As 
it was known that he could be very severe, 
many came to hear him, and they were not 
disappointed. The reader shall see a por- 
tion of his address to the jury, which we 
liope may have had some salutary effect 
on Lizzie as she read it in her retreat at 
Portray looking out upon her own blue 
waves. 

“ And now, gentlemen of the jury, let 
me recapitulate to you the history of this 
lady as far as it relates to the diamonds, as 
to which my client is now in jeopardy. 
You have heard on the testimony of Mr. 
Camperdown that they were not hers at 
all, that, at any rate, they were not sup- 
posed to be hers by those in whose hands 
was left the administration of her hus- 
band’s estate, and that when they were 
first supposed to have been stolen at the 
inn at Carlisle, he had already commenced 
legal steps for the recovery of them from 
her clutches. A bill in Chancery had been 
filed because she had obstinately refused 
to allow them to pass out of her hands. 
It ‘has been proved to you by Lord Fawn 
that though he was engaged to marry her 
he broke his engagement because he sup- 
posed her possession of these diamonds to 
be fraudulent and dishonest.” This ex- j 
amination had been terrible to the unfor- j 
tanate under-secretary ; and had absolute- 
ly driven him away from the India board 
and from Parliament for a month. “ It I 


has been proved to you that when the dia- 
monds were supposed to have vanished at 
Carlisle, she there committed peijury. 
That she did so she herself stated on oath 
in that 'evidence which she gave before the 
magistrate when my client was commit- 
ted, and which has, as I maintain, im- 
properly and illegally been used against 
my client at this trial.” Here the judge 
looked over his spectacles and admonished 
the learned sergeant that his argument on 
that subject had already been heard, and 
the matter decided. “ True, my lord ; 
but my conviction of my duty to my client 
compels me to revert to it. Lady Eustace 
committed perjury at Carlisle, having the 
diamonds in her pocket at the very mo- 
ment in which she swore that they had 
been stolen from her; and if justice had 
really been done in this case, gentlemen, 
it is Lady Eustace who should now be on 
her trial before you, and not my unfortu- 
nate client. Well, what is the next that 
we hear of it? It seems that she brought 
the diamonds up to London ; but how long 
she kept them there nobody knows. It 
was, however, necessary to account for 
them. A robbery is got up between a 
young woman who seems to have been the 
confidential friend, rather than the maid, 
of Lady Eustace, and that other witness 
whom you have heard testifying against 
himself, and who is of all the informers 
that ever came into my hands, the most 
dippant, the most hardened, the least con- 
scientious, and the least credible. That 
those two were engaged in a conspiracy I 
cannot doubt. That Lady Eustace was 
engaged with them I will not say ; but I 
will ask you to consider whether such may 
not probably have been the case. At any 
rate she then perjures herself again. She 
gives a list of the articles stolen from her, 
and omits the diamonds. She either per- 
jures herself a second time, or else the dia- 
monds, in regard to which my client is in 
jeopardy, were not in the house at all, 
and could not then have been stolen. It 
may very probably have been so. Noth- 
ing more probable. Mr. Camperdown 
and the managers of the Eustace estate 
had gradually come to a belief that the 
Carlisle robbery was a hoax, and there- 
j fore another robbery is necessary to ac- 
j count for the diamonds. Another rob- 
bery is arranged, and this jmung and 
beautiful widoAV, as bold as brass, again 
I goes before the magistrate and swears. 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


Either the diamonds were not stolen or 
else she commits a second perjury. 

“ And now, gentlemen, she is not here. 
She is sick forsooth at her own castle in 
Scotland, and sends to us a medical certif- 
icate; but the gentlemen who are carr}’- 
ingon this prosecution know their witness, 
and don’t believe a word of her sickness. 
Had she the feelings of woman in her 
bozom she ought indeed to be sick unto 
death. But they know her better and 
send down a doctor of their own. You 
have heard his evidence, andj'et this won- 
derful lady is not before us. I say again 
that she ought to be here in that dock — in 
that dock in spite of her fortune, in that 
dock in spite of her title, in that dock in 
spite of her castle, her riches, her beauty, 
and her great relatives. A most wonder- 
ful woman, indeed, is the widow Eustace, 
[t is she whom public opinion will convict 
as the guilty one in this marvellous mass 
of conspiracy and intrigue. In her ab- 
sence, and after what she has done her- 
self, can you convict any man either ol 
stealing or of disposing of these dia- 
monds?” The vigor, the attitude, and 
the indignant tone of the man were more 
even than his words ; but, nevertheless, 
the jury found both Benjamin and Sini- 
ler guilty, and the judge sentenced them 
to penal servitude for fifteen years. 

And this was the end of the Eustace 
diamonds, as far as anything was ever 
known of them in England. Mr. Camp- 
erdown altogether failed, even in his at- 
tempt to buy them back at something less 
than their value, and was ashamed ijim- 
self to look at the figures, when he found 
how much money he had wasted for his 
clients in their pursuit. In discussing the 
matter afterwards with Mr. Dove, he ex- 
cused himself, by asserting his inability to 
see so gross a robbery perpetrated by a 
little minx, under his very eyes, without 
interfering with the plunder. “ I knew 
what she was,” he said, “ from the mo- 
ment of Sir Florian’s unfortunate mar- 
riage. He had brought a little harpy into 
the family, and I was obliged to declare 
war against her.” Mr. Dove seemed to 
be of opinion that the ultimate loss of the 
diamonds was, upon the whole, desirable 
as regarded the whole community. “ I 
should like to have had the case settled as 
to right of possession,” he said, “ because 
there were in it one or two points of in- 
terest. We none of us know, for in- 


343 

stance, what a man can, or what a man 
cannot, give away by a mere word.” 

“ No such word was ever spoken,” said 
Mr. Camperdown in wrath. 

“ Such evidence as there is would have 
gone to show that it had been spoken. 
But the very existence of such property 
so to be disposed of, or so not to be dis- 
posed of, is in itself an evil. Then, we 
have had to fight for six months about a 
lot of stones hardlj so useful as the flags 
in the street, and then they vanish from 
us, leaving us nothing to repay us for our 
labor.” All of which Mr. Camperdown did 
not quite understand. Mr. Dove w'ould 
be paid for his labor, as to which, how- 
ever, Mr. Camperdown knew well that no 
human being was more indifl'erent than 
Mr. Dove. 

There was much sorrow, too, among the 
police. They had no doubt succeeded in 
sending two scoundrels out of the social 
world, probably for life, and had succeed- 
ed in avoiding the reproach which a great 
robberj' unaccounted for always entails 
upon them ; but it was sad to them that 
the property should altogether have been 
lost ; and sad also that they should have 
been constrained to allow Billy Cann to 
escape out of their hands. Perhaps tlie 
sadness may have been lessened to a cer- 
tain degree in the breast of the great Mr. 
Gager, by the charms and graces of Pa- 
tience Crabstick, to whom he kept his 
word by making her his wife. This fact, 
or rather the prospect of this fact, as it 
then was, had also come to the knowledge 
of the learned sergeant, and in his hands 
had served to add another interest to the 
trial. Mr. Gager, when examined on the 
subject, did not attempt to deny the im- 
peachment, and expressed a strong opinion 
that, though Miss Crabstick had given 
way to temptation under the wiles of the 
Jew, she would make an honest and an 
excellent wife. In which expectation let 
us trust that he may not be deceived. 

Amusement had, indeed, been expected 
from other sources which failed. Mrs. 
Carbuncle had been summoned, and Lord 
George ; but both of them had left town 
before the summons could reach them. It 
was rumored that Mis. Carbuncle, with 
her niece, had gone to join her husband 
at New York. At any rate, she disap- 
peared altogether from London, leaving 
beliind her an amount of debts which 
showed how extremely liberal in their 


344 


' THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


dealings the great tradesmen of London 
■will occasionally be. There were mil- 
liners’ bills which had been running for 
three years, and horse-dealers had given 
her credit year after year, though they 
had scarcely ever seen the color of her 
money. One account, however, she had 
lionestly settled. The hotel-keeper in 
Albemarle street had been paid, and all 
the tribute had been packed and carried 
off from the scene of the proposed wed- 
ding banquet. What became of Lord 
George for the next six months nobody 
ever knew ; but he appeared at Melton in 
in the following November, and I do not 
know that any one dared to ask him ques- 
tions about the Eustace diamonds. 

Of Lizzie, and her future career, some- 
thing further must be said in the conclud- 
ing chapters of this work. She has been 
our heroine, and we must see her through 
her immediate troubles before we can 
leave her ; but it may be as well to men- 
tion here that, although many threats 
had been uttered against her, not only by 
Mr. Camperdown and the other attornej^s 
but even by the judge himself, no punish- 
ment at all was inflicted upon her in re- 
gard to her recusancy, nor was any at- 
tempt made to punish her. The affair 
was over, and men were glad to avoid the 
necessity of troubling themselves further 
with the business. It was said that a 
case would be got up - with the view of 
proving that she had not been ill at all, 
and that the Scotch doctor would be sub- 
jected to the loss of his degree, or what- 
ever privileges in the healing art belonged 
to him ; but nothing was done, and Liz- 
zie triumphed in her success. 


CHAPTER LXXIX. 

ONCE MORE AT PORTRAY. 

On the very day of the trial Mr. Emi- 
lias travelled from London to Kilmarnock. 
The trial took place on a Monday, so that 
he had at his command an entire week 
before he -would be required to appear 
again in his church. He had watched the 
case against Benjamin and Smiler very 
closely, and had known beforehand, al- 
most with accuracy, what witnesses would 
appear and what would not at the great 
coming event at the Old Bailey. When 
he first heard of Lady Eustace’s illness he 
wrote to her a most affectionately pas- 
toral letter, strongly adjuring her to -think 


of her health before all things, and assur- 
ing her that in his opinion and in that of 
all his friends she was quite right not to 
come up to London. She wrote him a 
very short but very gracious answer, 
thanking him for his solicitude and ex- 
plaining to him that her condition made 
it quite impossible 'that she should leave 
Portray. “ I don’t suppose anybody 
knows how ill I am ; but it does not mat- 
ter. When I am gone, they will know 
what they have done.” Then Mr. Emi- 
lius resolved that he would go down to 
Scotland. Perhaps Lady Eustace was not 
as ill as she thought ; but it might be 
that the trial and the hard things lately 
said of her, and her loneliness and the 
feeling that she needed protection, might, 
at such a moment as this, soften her heart. 
She should know at least that one tender 
friend did not desert her because of the 
evil things which men said of her. 

He went to Kilmarnock, thinking it 
better to make his approaches by degrees. 
Were he to present himself at once at the 
castle and be refused admittance, he 
would hardly know how to repeat his ap- 
plication or to force himself upon her 
presence. From Kilmarnock he wrote to 
her, saying that business connected with 
his ministrations during the coming au- 
tumn had brought him into her beautiful 
neighborhood, and that he could not leave 
it without paying his respects to her in 
person. With her permission he would 
call upon her on the Thursday at about 
noon. He trusted that the .state of her 
health would not prevent her from seeing 
him, and reminded her that a clergyman 
was often as welcome a visitor at the bed- 
side of the invalid, as the doctor or the 
nurse. He gave her no address, as he 
rather wished to hinder her from answer- 
ing him, but at the appointed hour he 
knocked at the castle door. 

Need it be said that Lizzie’s state of 
health was not such as to preclude her 
from seeing so intimate a friend as Mr. 
Emilius. That she was right to avoid by 
any effort the castigation which was to 
have fallen upon her from the tongue of 
the learned sergeant, the reader who is 
not straight-laced will be disposed to 
admit. A lone woman, very young, and 
delicately organized ! How could she 
have stood up against such treatment as 
was in store for her? And is it not the 
case that false pretexts against public de- 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


345 


mands are always held to be justifiable by 
the female mind ? What lady will ever 
scruple to avoid her taxes? What wom- 
an ever understood her duty to the 
State? And this duty which was requir- 
ed of her was so terrible that it might 
well have reduced to falsehood a stouter 
heart than her own. It can hardly be 
reckoned among Lizzie’s great sins that 
she did not make that journey up to Lon- 
don. An appearance of sickness she did 
maintain, even with her own domestics. 
To do as much as that was due even to 
the doctor whom she had cajoled out of 
the certificate, and who was afterward 
frightened into maintaining it. But Mr. 
Emilius was her clergyman — her own 
clergyman, as she took care to say to her 
maid — her own clergyman, who had come 
all the way from London to be present with 
her in her sickness ; and of course she 
would see him. 

Lizzie did not think much of the coming 
autumnal minstration at Kilmarnock. 
She knew very well why ^Ir. Emilius had 
undertaken the expense of a journey into 
Scotland in the middle of the London sea- 
son. She had been maimed fearfully in 
her late contests with the world, and W'as 
now lame and soiled and impotent. The 
boy with none of the equipments of the 
skilled sportsman can make himself mas- 
ter of a wounded bird. Mr. Emilius was 
seeking her in the moment of her weak- 
ness, fearing that all chance of success 
might be over for him should she ever 
again recover the full use of her wings. 
All this Lizzie understood, and was able 
to measure ]Mr. Emilius at his own value 
of himself ; but then, again, she was 
forced to ask herself what was her value. 
She had been terribly mauled by the 
fowlers. She had been hit, so to say, on 
both wings, and hardly knew whether 
she would ever again be able to attempt a 
a flight in public. She could not live 
alone in Portray Castle for the rest of her 
days. lanthe’s soul and the Corsair were 
not, in truth, able to console her for the 
loss of society. She must have somebody 
to depend upon — ah, some one whom, if 
it were possible, she might love. She 
saw no reason why she should not love 
Mr. Emilius. She had been shockingly 
ill-treated by Lord Fawn and the Cor- 
sair and Frank Greystock. No woman 
had ever been so knocked about in her af- 
fections. S'le pitied herself with an ex- 


ceeding pity when she thought of all the 
hardships which she had endured. Left 
an early widow, persecuted by her hus- 
band’s family, twice robbed, spied upon 
by her own servants, unappreciated by 
the world at large, ill-used by three lovers, 
victimized by her selected friend, Mrs. 
Carbuncle, and now driven out of society 
because she had lost her diamonds, was 
she not more cruelly treated than any 
woman of wdiom she had ever read or 
heard?. But she was not going to give 
up the battle, even now. She still had 
her income, and she had great faith 
in income. And though she knew that 
she had been greviously wounded by the 
fowlers, she believed that time would 
heal her wounds. The world would not 
continue to turn its back altogether upon 
a woman with four thousand pounds a 
year, because she had told a fib about her 
necklace. She weighed all this ; but the 
conviction strongest upon her mind was 
the necessity that she should have a hus- 
band. She felt that a woman by herself 
in the world can do nothing, and that an 
unmarried woman’s strength lies only in 
the expectation that she may soon be mar^ 
ried. To her it was essentially necessary 
that she should have the protection of a 
husband who might endure on her behalf 
some portion of those bufletings to which 
she seemed to be especially doomed. 
Could she do better with herself than to 
take Mr. Emilius? 

Might she have chosen from all the " 
world, Mr. Emilius was not, perhaps, the 
man, whom she would have selected. 
There were, indeed, attributes in the 
man, very objectionable in the sight of 
some people, -which to her were not spe- 
cially disagreeable. She thought him 
rather good-looking than otherwise, in 
spite of a slight defect in his left eye. 
His coal-black, glossy hair commanded 
and obtained her admiration, and she 
found his hooky nose to be handsome. 
She did not think much of the ancestral 
blood of which he had boasted, and hardly 
believed that he would ever become a 
bishop. But he was popular, and with a 
rich, titled wife, might become more so. 
Mr. Emilius and Lady Eustace would, 
she thought, sound very well, and would 
surely make their way in society. The 
man had a grasping ambition about him, 
and a capacity, too, which combined, 
would enable him to preach him.self into 


340 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


notoriety. And then in marrying Mr. 
Emiliiis, should she determine to do so, 
she might be sure, almost sure, of dictat- 
ing her own terms as to settlement. With 
Lord Fawn, with Lord George, or CYen 
with her cousin Frank, there would have 
been much difficulty. She thought that 
with Mr. Emilius she might obtain the 
undisputed command of her own income. 
But she did not quite make up her mind. 
She would see him and hear what he had 
to say. Her income was her own, and 
should she refuse Mr. Emilius, other 
suitors would no doubt come. 

She dressed herself with considerable 
care — having first thought of receiving 
him in bed; but as the trial had now 
gone on without her, it would be conven- 
ient that her recovery should be com- 
menced. So she had herself dressed in a 
Avhite morning wrapper with pink bows, 
and allowed the curl to be made fit to 
hang over her shoulder. And she put on 
a pair of pretty slippers, with gilt bind- 
ings, and took a laced handkerchief and a 
volume of Shelley — and so prepared her- 
.self to receive Mr. Emilius. Lizzie, since 
the reader first knew her, had begun to 
use a little coloring in the arrangement 
of her face, and now in honor of her sick- 
ness, she was very pale indeed ; but still, 
through the paleness, there was the faint- 
est possible tinge of pink color shining 
through the translucent pearl powder. 
Any one who knew Lizzie would be sure 
that when she did paint she would paint 
well. 

The conversation at first was, of course, 
confined to the lady’s health. She thought 
that she was, perhaps, getting better, 
though, as the doctor had told her, the re- 
assuring symptoms might probably prove 
only too fallacious. She could eat noth- 
ing — literally nothing. few grapes 
out of the hot-house had supported her 
for the last week. This statement was 
foolish on Lizzie's part, as Mr. Emilius 
was a man of an inquiring nature, and 
there was not a grape in the garden. 
Her only delight was in reading and in 
her child’s society. Sometimes she thought 
that she would pass away with the boy in 
her arms and her favorite volume of Shel- 
ley in her hand. Mr. Emilius expressed a 
hope that she would not pass away yet, 
for everso many years. “Oh, my friend,” 
said Lizzie, “ what is life, that one should 
desire it?” Mr Emilius of course re- 


minded her that, though her life might 
be nothing to herself, it was very much 
indeed to those who loved her. “ Yes — 
to my boy,” said Lizzie. Mr. Emilius 
informed her, with Confidence, that it was 
not only her boy that loved her. There 
were others — or, at any rate, one other. 
She might be sure of one faithful heart, 
if she cared for that. Lizzie only smiled 
and threw from her taper fingers a little 
paper pellet into the middle of the room — 
probably with the view of showing at 
what value she prized the heart of which 
Mr. Emilius was speaking. 

The trial had occupied two days, Mon- 
day and Tuesday, and this was now the 
Wednesday. The result had been tele- 
graphed to Mr. Emilius, of course with- 
out any record of the sergeant’s bitter 
speech, and the suitor now gave the news 
to his lady-love. Those two horrid, men. 
had at last been found guilty, and punish- 
ed with all the severity of the law. 
“Poor fellows,” said Lady Eustace, 
“ poor ^Ir. Benjamin ! Those ill-starred 
jewels have been almost as unkind to 
him as to me.” 

“ He’ll never come back alive, of 
course,” said Mr. Emilius. “It’ll kill 
him.” 

“ And it will kill me too,” said Lizzie. 
“ I have a something here which tells me 
that I shall never recover. Nobody will 
ever believe what I have suflered about 
those paltry diamonds. But he coveted 
them. I never coveted them, Mr. Emilius ; 
though I clung to them because they were 
my darling husband’s last gift to me.” 
Mr. Emilius assured her that he quite 
understood the facts, and appreciated all 
her feelings. 

And now, as he thought, had come the 
time for pressing his suit. With widows, 
he had been told, the w'ooing should be 
brisk. He had already once asked her to 
be his wife, and of course she knew the 
motive of his journey down to Scotland. 
“Dearest Lady Eustace,” he said sud- 
denly, “ may I be allowed to renew tlie 
petition which I was once bold enough to 
make to you in London? ” 

“ Petition?” exclaimed Lizzie. 

“ Ah, yes: 1 can w'ell understand that 
your indifference snouid enable you to 
forget it. Lady Eustace, I did venture to 
tell you — that — 1 loved you.'’ 

“ Mr. Emilius, so many men have told 
me that.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


347 


“ I can \A’ell believe it. Some have told 
you so, perhaps, from base, mercenary 
motives.” 

“ You are very complimentary, sir.” 

“ I shall never pay you any compli- 
ments, Lady Eustace. Whatever may be 
our future intercourse in life, you Avill 
only hear words of truth from my lips. 
Some have told you so from mercenary 
motives.” Mr. Emilius repeated the 
Avords Avith severity, and then paused to 
hear Avhether she Avould dare to argue 
Avith him. As she was silent, he changed 
his A’oice, and went on with that SAveet, 
oily tone, Avhich had made his fortune for 
him. “ Some, no doubt, have spoken 
from the inner depths of their hearts ; 
but none. Lady Eustace, have spoken 
with such adamantine truth, with so in- 
tense an anxiety, with .so personal a solici- 
tude for your Avelfare in this Avorld and 
the next, as that, or I should rather say 
those, Avhich gloAV within this bosom.” 
Lizzie was certainly pleased by the man- 
ner in which he addressed her. She 
thought that a man ought to dare to 
speak out, and that on such an occasion 
as this he should venture to do so Avith 
some enthusiasm and some poetry. She 
considered that men generally Arere afraid 
of expressing themselves, and Avere as 
dumb as dogs from the AA'ant of becoming 
spirit. Mr. Emilius gesticulated, and 
struck his breast, and brought out his 
AA'ords as though he meant them. 

“ It is easy to say all that, Mr. Emi- 
lius,” she replied. 

“ The saying of it is hard enough. Lady 
Eustace. You can never knoAv hoAV hard 
it is to speak from a full heart. But to 
feel it, I will not say is easy ; only to me, 
not to feel it is impossible. Lady Eus- 
tace, my heart is devoted to your heart, 
and seeks its comrade. It is sick Avith love, 
and Avill not be stayed. It forces from me 
words, words which will return upon me 
Avith all the bitterness of gall, if they be 
not accepted by you as faithful, ay and 
of great value.” 

“ I know well the value of such a heart 
as yours, Mr. Emilius.” 

“ Accept it then, dearest one.’- 

“ Love will not always go by command, 
Mr. Emilius.” 

“ No indeed ; nor at command' will it 
stay away. Do you think I have not 
tried that? Do 3'ou belicA’e that for a 
man it can be pleasant to be rebuffed ; 


that for one Avho up to this day has al- 
AA'ays Avalked on, triumphant over every 
obstacle, who has conquered every nay 
that has obstructed his path, it can have 
less of bitterness than the bitterness of 
death to encounter a no from the lips of a 
AA'oman? ” 

“ A poor AA^oman’s no should be nothing 
to you, Mr. Emilius.” 

“It is everything to me, death, de- 
struction, annihilation, unless I can over- 
come it. Darling of my heart, queen of 
my soul, empress presiding over the very 
spirit of my being, say, shall I overcome 
it now? ” 

She had never been made love to after 
this fashion before. She knew, or half 
kneAV, that the man was a scheming hypo- 
crite, craving her money, and following 
her in the hour of her troubles, because 
he might then have the best chance of 
success. She had no belief whatever in 
his love ; and j^et she liked it, and ap- 
proved his proceedings. She liked lies, 
thinking them to be more beautiful than 
truth. To lie readily and cleverly, reck- 
lessly and 3"et successfully, was, according 
to the lessons which she had learned, a 
necessity in woman and an added grace 
in man. There Avas that wretched Mac- 
nulty, who would never lie ; and what 
was the result? She aauis unfit even for 
the poor condition of life which she pre- 
tended to fill. When poor Macnulty had 
heard that Mr. Emilius Avas coming to 
the castle, and had not even mentioned 
her name, and again, av hen he had been 
announced on this very morning, the un- 
fortunate AA’oman had been unable to con- 
trol her absurd disappointment. “ Mr. 
Emilius,” Lizzie said, throwing herself 
back upon her couch, “ you press me very 
hdrd.” 

“ I Avould press you harder still to gain 
the glory I coA'et.” And he made a mo- 
tion with his arms as though he had al- 
ready got her tight Avithin his grasp. 

“ You take advantage of my illness.” 

“ In attacking a fortress do not the be 
siegers take all advantages ? Dear Lady 
Eustace, allow me to return to London 
with the right of protecting your name at 
this moment, in Avhich the false and the 
thoughtless are attacking it. You need a 
defender noAV.” 

“ I can defend m3’self, sir, from all at- 
tacks. I do not know that any one can 
hurt me.” 


348 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


“ God forbid that you should be hurt. 
Heaven forbid that even the w^inds of 
Heaven should blow too harshly on my be- 
loved. But my beloved is subject to the 
malice of the world. My beloved is a 
flower all beautiful within and without, 
but one whose stalk is weak, whose petals 
are too delicate, whose soft bloom is 
evanescent. Let me be the strong staff 
against which my beloved may blow in 
safety.” 

A vague idea came across Lizzie’s mind 
that this glowing language had a taste of 
the Bible about it, and that, therefore, it 
was in some degree impersonal and in- 
tended to be pious. She did not relish 
piety at such a crisis as this, and was 
therefore for a moment inclined to be 
cold ; but she liked being called a flower, 
and was not quite sure whether she re- 
membered her Bible rightly. The words 
which struck her ear as familiar might 
have come from Juan and Haidee, and if 
so, nothing could be more opportune. 
“ Do you expect me to give you an answ’er 
now, Mr. Emilius? ” 

“ Yes, now.” And he stood before her 
in calm dignity, with his arms crossed 
upon his breast. 

She did give him his answer then and 
there, but first she turned her face to the 
wall, or rather to the back of the sofa, 
and burst into a flood of tears. It was a 
delicious moment to her, that in which 
she was weeping. She sobbed forth some- 
thing about her child, something about 
her sorrows, something as to the wretched- 
ness of her lot in life, something of her 
widowed heart, something also of that 
duty to others which would compel her to 
keep her income in her own hands ; and 
then she yielded herself to his entreaties. 

That evening she thought it proper to 
tell Miss Macnulty what had occurred. 
“ He is a great preacher of the gospel,” 
she said, “ and I know no position in the 
world more, worthy of a woman’s fondest 
admiration.” Miss Macnulty was unable 
to answer a word. She could not con- 
gratulate her successful rival, even though 
her bread depended on it. She crept 
slowly out of the room, and went up stairs 
and wept. 

Early in the month of June, Lady Eus- 
tace was led to the hymeneal altar by her 
clerical bridegroom. The wedding took 
place at the Episcopal Church at Ayr, far 


from the eyes of curious Londoners. It 
need only be further said that Mr. Emilius 
could be persuaded to agree to no settle- 
ments prejudicial to that marital suprem- 
acy which should be attached to the hus- 
band ; and that Lizzie, when the moment 
came, knowing that her betrothal had 
been made public to all the world, did not 
dare to recede from another engagement. 
It may be that Mr. Emilius will suit her 
as well as any husband that she could find, 
unless it shall be found that his previous 
career has been too adventurous. Alter a 
certain fashion he will, perhaps, be tender 
to her ; but he will have his own way in 
everything, and be no whit afraid when 
she is about to die in an agony of tears 
before his eyes. The writer of the present 
story may, however, declare that the fu- 
ture fate of this lady shall not be left al- 
together in obscurity 


CHAPTER LXXX. 

WHAT WAS SAID ABOUT IT ALL AT MATCH- 
ING. 

The AVhitsuntide holiday’s were late 
this year, not taking place till the begin- 
ning of June, and were protracted till the 
9th of that month . On the 8th Lizzie and 
Mr. Emilius became man and wife, and 
on that same day Lady Glencora Palliser 
entertained a large company of guests at 
Matching Priory. That the Duke of Om- 
nium was there was quite a matter of 
course. Indeed in these days Lady Glen- 
cora seldom separated herself far, or for 
any long time, from her husband’s uncle, 
doing her duty to the head of her hus- 
band’s family in the most exemplary man- 
ner. People, indeed, said that she watch- 
ed him narrowly, but of persons in high 
station common people will say anything. 
It was at any rate certain that she made 
the declining years of that great noble- 
man’s life comfortable and decorous. Mad- 
ame ;Max Goesler was also at Matching, a 
lady whose society always gave gratifica- 
tion to the Duke. And Mr. Palliser was also 
there, taking the rest that was so needful 
to him ; by which it must be understood 
that after having worked all day he was 
able to eat his dinner and then only write 
a few letters before going to bed, instead 
of attending the House of Commons till 
two or three o’clock in the morning ; but 
his mind wa,s still deep in quints and semi 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 


349 


tenths. His great measure was even 
now in committee. His hundred and sec- 
ond clause had been carried, with only 
nine divisions against him of any conse- 
quence. Seven of the most material 
clauses had no doubt been postponed, and 
the great bone of contention as to the two 
superfluous farthings still remained before 
him ; nevertheless he fondly hoped that 
he would be able to send his bill complete 
to the House of Lords before the end of 
July. What might be done in the way 
of amendments there he had hitherto re- 
fused to consider. “If the peers choose 
to put themselves in opposition to the 
whole nation, on a purely commercial ques- 
tion, the responsibility of all evils that 
may follow must be at their doors.” This 
he had said as a commoner. A year or 
two at the furthest — or more probably a 
few months — would make him a peer ; 
and then no doubt he would look at the 
matter in a wholly difierent light. But 
he worked at his great measure with a 
diligence which at any rate deserved suc- 
cess ; and he now had with him a whole 
bevy of secretaries, private secretaries, 
chief clerks, and accountants, all of whom 
Lady Glencora captivated by her flatter- 
ing ways and laughed at behind their 
backs. Mr. Bonteen was there with his 
wife, repeatedly declaring to all his 
friends that England would achieve the 
glories of decimal coinage by his blood 
and over his grave, and Barrington Erie, 
who took things much more easily, and 
Lord Chiltern, with his wife, who would 
occasionally ask her if she could explain 
to him the value of a quint, and many 
others whom it may not be necessary to 
name. Lord Fawn was not there. Lord 
Fawn, whose health had temporarily given 
way beneath the pressing labors of the 
India board, was visiting his estates in 
Tipperary. 

“ She is married to-day, Duke, down in 
Scotland,” said Lady Glencora, sitting 
close to the Duke’s ear, for the Duke was 
a little deaf. They were in the Duke’s 
small morning sitting-room, and no one 
else was present excepting Mme. INIax 
Goesler, 

“ Married to-morrow down in Scotland. 
Dear, dear! Avhat is he?” The profes- 
sion to which Mr. Emilius belonged had 
been mentioned to the Duke more than 
once before. 

“ He’s some sort of a clergyman, Duke. 


You went and heard him preach, Madame 
Max. You can tell us what he’s like.” 

“Oh, yes; he's a clergyman of our 
Church,” said Mme. Goesler. 

“A clergyman of our Church; dear, 
dear ! And married in Scotland 1 That 
makes it stranger. I wonder what made 
a clergyman marry her? ” 

“ Money, Duke,” said Lady Glencora, 
speaking very loud. 

“Oh, ah, yes; money. So hejd got 
money; had he?” 

“ Not a penny, Duke ; but she had.” 

“ Oh, ah, yes. I forgot. She was very 
well left ; wasn’t she ? And so she has 
married a clergyman without a penny. 
Dear, dear! Did not you say she was 
very beautiful? ” 

“ Lovely ! ” 

“Let me see, you went and saw her, 
didn’t you? ” 

“I went to her twice, and got quite 
scolded about it. Plantagenet said that 
if I wanted horrors I’d better go to Mme. 
Tussaud. Didn’t he, Mme. Max.” Mme. 
Max smiled and nodded her head. 

“And what’s the clergyman like?” 
asked the Duke. 

“ Now, my dear, you must take up the 
running,” said Lady Glencora, dropping 
her voice. “I ran after the lady but it 
was you who ran after the gentleman.” 
Then she raised her voice. “ JMme. Max 
will tell you all about it, Duke. She 
knows him very well.” 

“You know him very well; do j'ou? 
Dear, dear, dear ! ” 

“ 1 don’t know him at all, Duke, but I 
once went to hear him preach. He’s one 
of those men who string words together, 
and do a good deal of work with a cam- 
bric pocket-handkerchief.” 

“ A gentleman? ” asked the Duke. 

“ About as like a gentleman as you’re 
like an archbishop,” said Lady Glencora.” 

This tickled the Duke amazingly. “ He, 
he, he ; I don’t see why I shouldn’t be 
like an archbishop. If I hadn’t happened 
to be a duke I should have liked to be an 
archbishop. Both the archbishops take 
rank of me. I never quite understood 
why that was, but they do. And these 
things never can be altered when they’re 
once settled.. It’s quite absurd nowadays 
since they’ve cut the archbishops down so 
terribly. They were princes once, I sup- 
pose, and had great power. But it’s 
quite absurd now, and so they must feel 


350 


THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS.' 


it. I liave often thought about that a 
good deal, Glencora.” 

“And 1 think about poor Mrs. Arch, 
who hasn’t got any rank at all.” 

“ A great prelate having a wife, does 
seem to be an absurdity,” said Mme. 
Max, who had passed some years of her 
life in a Catholic country. 

“ And the man is a cad ; is he ? ” asked 
the Duke. 

“ A ^Bohemian Jew, Duke, an impostor 
who has come over here to make a for- 
tune. We hear that he has a wife in 
Prague, and probably two or three else- 
where. But he has got poor little Lizzie 
Eustace and all her money into his grasp, 
and they who know him say that he’s 
likely to keep it.” 

“ Dear, dear, dear ! ” 

“ Barrington says that the best spec he 
knows out, for a younger son, would be to 
go to Prague for the former wife and 
bring her back, with evidence of the mar- 
riage. The poor little woman could not 
fail of being grateful to the hero who 
would liberate her.” 

“Dear, dear, dear!” said the Duke. 
“ And the diamonds never turned up after 
all. I think that was a pity, because I 
knew the late man’s father very well. W e 
used to be together a good deal at one 
time. He had a fine property, and we 
used to live — but I can’t just tell you how 
we used to live. He, he, he ! ” 

“ You had better tell us nothing about 
it, Duke,” said Mme. Max. 

The affairs of our heroine were again 
discussed that evening, in another part of 
the Priory. They were in the billiard-room 
in the evening, and IMr. Bonteen was in- 
veighing against the inadequac}’’ of the 
law as it had been brought to bear against 
the sinners who between them had suc- 
ceeded in making away with the Eustace 
diamonds. “ It was a most unworthy 
conclusion to such a plot,” he said. “It 
always happens that they catch the small 
fry and let the large fish escape.” 

“ Whom did you specially want to 
catch?” asked Lady Glencora. 

“ Lady Eustace and Lord George de 
Bruce Carruthers, as he calls himself.” 

“ I quite agree with you, Mr. Bonteen, 
that it would be very nice to send the 
brother of a marquis to Botany Bay or 
wherever they go now ; and that it would 
do a deal of good to have the widow of a 
baronet locked up in the Penitentiary ; 


but you see if they didn’t happen to l>e 
guilty it would be almost a shame tc pun- 
ish them for the sake of the example.” 

“They ought to have been guilty,” 
said Barrington Erie. 

“ They were guilty,” protested Mr. 
Bonteen. 

Mr. Palliser was enjoying ten minutes 
of recreation before he went back to his 
letters. “ I can’t say that I attended to 
the case very closely,” he observed, “ and 
perhaps, therefore, I am not entitled to 
speak about it.” 

“If people only spoke about what they 
attended to, how very little there would be 
to say, eh , Mr. Bonteen ? ’ ’ This observa- 
tion came, of course, from Lady Glencora. 

“ But as far as I could hear,” continued 
Mr. Palliser, “ Lord George Carruthers 
cannot possibly have had anything to do 
with it. It was a stupid mistake on the 
part of the police.” 

“ I’m not quite so sure, Mr. Palliser,” 
said Bonteen. 

“ I know Coldfoot told me so.” Now, 
Sir Harry Coldfoot was at this time Secre- 
tary of State for the home aflairs, and in a 
matter of such importance, of course, had 
an opinion of his own. 

“We all know that he Imd money deal- 
ings with Benjamin, the Jew,” said Mrs. 
Bonteen. 

“ Why didn’t he come forward as a wit- 
ness when he was summoned?” asked 
Mrs. Bonteen triumphantly. “ And as 
for the woman, does anybody mean to say 
that she should not have been indicted for 
peijury?” 

“ The woman, as you are pleased to call 
her, is my particular friend,” said Lady 
Glencora. When Lady Glencora made 
an}’- such statement as this — and she often 
did make such statements — no one dared 
to answer her. It was understood that 
Lady Glencora was not to be snubbed, 
though she was very, much given to snub- 
bing others. She had attained this posi- 
tion for herself by a mixture of beauty, 
rank, wealth, and courage, but the cour 
age had, of the four, been her greatest 
mainstay. 

Then Lord Chiltern, who was playing 
billiards with Barringtcn Erie, rapped his 
cue down on the floor, and made a speech. 

“ I never was so sick of anything in my 
life as I am of I^ady Eustace. People 
have talked about her now for the last six 
months.” 


THE EUSTACE DIAIMONDS. 


“ Only three months, Lord Chiltern,” 
said Lady Glencora in a tone of rebuke. 

“ And all that I can hear of her is that 
she has told a lot of lies and lost a neck- 
lace.” 

“ When Lady Chiltern loses a necklace 
worth ten thousand pounds, there will be 
talk of her,” said Lady Glencora. 

At that moment INIme. Wax Goesler en- 
tered the room and whispered a word to 
the hostess. She had just come from the 
duke, who could not bear the racket of 
the billiard-room. “ Wants to go to bed, 
does he? Very well. I’ll go to him.” 


351 

“He seems to be quite fatigued with 
his fascination about Lady Eustace.” 

“ I call that woman a perfect god-send. 
What should we have done without her? ” 
This Lady Glencora said almost to herself 
as she prepared to join the duke. The 
duke had only one more observation to 
make before he retired for the night. 
“ I’m afraid, you know, that your friend 
hasn’t what I call a good time before her, 
Glencora.” 

In this opinion of the Duke of Omni- 
um’s the readers of this story will perhaps 
agree. 


THE END. 



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